


Noise and Clarity

by KentuckyFriedChilton



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 08:12:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 62,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4780157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KentuckyFriedChilton/pseuds/KentuckyFriedChilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story picks up where the cliff left off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Palate Cleanser

        Will Graham found that it felt very good to fall. It was like diving into a cool stream. Losing his footing and drifting down though the darkness. Mind unreeling, no need for a reel now, letting the line go slack. Enough turns had been taken as fisherman and fish. He would never get the hook out, and that was all right. Hannibal Lecter was in his arms, he was in Hannibal’s arms, and they were falling. There was no noise, just beautiful clarity. It was an immense relief.  
        The net was as black as the water. It caught them softly, soundlessly. Will opened his eyes and saw himself continue to fall. He felt a momentary agony in his chest; regret, perhaps, spurred by the look of terror and betrayal in the other Will’s eyes. The separation was necessary. Still, Will whispered, “I’m sorry.”  
        “I forgive you,” Hannibal said quietly.  
        Will turned his head to look at him. Hannibal’s expression bore no smugness. The net had been a surprise to him, too. They were caught together. That felt right to Will. It felt like the only fair way to start.  
        Gravity compelled their bodies together, but neither sought to break the embrace. Will was consumed by a profound feeling of peace and comfort. It was what he had felt before they left the cliff. In fact, it was the fear of how good it felt that compelled him to act before he was lost in it. Looking at Hannibal now, the fear was gone. Will knew he was lost and he did not care. “May I kiss you?” he asked.  
        “Please do.”  
        Will savored Hannibal savoring him. Blood filled Will’s mouth from the cut in his cheek; Hannibal could not resist swallowing some of it, could not hide the uncommon quickening of his heart. Will smiled at that, feeling powerful. He moved a hand down Hannibal’s chest to the bullet wound and pressed his palm there. The fabric was soaked. “Let’s go inside,” said Will.  
        “If Chiyoh will oblige us.”  
        Will looked up. Chiyoh was standing at the edge of the cliff. She lowered a rope and said, “I’ll pull you up with the car.”  
        Hannibal looped the rope behind Will under his arms, then around himself, tying them tightly together. Will asked, “You don’t trust me to hold on?”  
        “You are displaying signs of shock. You might lose your grip.”  
        Chiyoh pulled them up and back from the brink. Hannibal untied them and helped Will stand. Will didn’t realize how weak and dizzy he felt until Hannibal’s arm was already supporting him around the rib cage. They walked past the motionless form of the Dragon and into the house. Hannibal guided Will to the couch in the living room and gently maneuvered him into a supine position, noting his pallor and sheen of cold sweat. He placed Will’s feet on the armrest, above the level of his heart. “Please allow me to treat you,” said Hannibal, shrugging off his jacket.  
        Will nodded, a bit surprised by the politeness of Hannibal’s request. Hannibal was, of course, quite capable of doing whatever he wanted. Hannibal left the room.  
        Chiyoh followed them inside, stepping around shards of broken glass that littered the floor. She stood near the couch and silently observed. Hannibal returned with a large black bag and a blanket. He hastily wrapped a pressure bandage around his own gunshot wound, then cut off Will’s shirt with bandage scissors and put the blanket over him, leaving his arms accessible. He wheeled an IV stand to Will’s side and attached a bag of clear fluid connected to a plastic tube. He met Will’s eyes, expecting at least some trepidation, considering their history. Will just smiled weakly. Hannibal started the IV line. “The saline will help you feel better,” he said.  
        Hannibal unwrapped some gauze and held it to the wound on Will’s cheek. “Press down on this.”  
        Will obeyed. Hannibal examined the wound on his shoulder, applied gauze and held it there firmly. “Meek Lamb of God, I, a miserable sinner, salute and worship the most sacred wound of thy shoulder on which thou didst bear thy heavy cross, which so tore thy flesh and laid bare thy bones as to inflict on thee an anguish greater than any other wound of thy most blessed body.”  
        “Catholic prayers? Uh oh, is it that bad?”  
        Hannibal smirked. “I’m optimistic.”  
        With his free hand, Hannibal took Will’s pulse at the carotid artery. It was rapid. “Are you okay?” asked Will.  
        “The bullet went through my liver. I’ll survive if I can stop the bleeding.”  
        “Shouldn’t you lie down, too?”  
        “Once I’m sure you’re out of the woods.”  
        “That’s very considerate of you, since I just tried to kill you.”  
        “I’m feeling altruistic.”  
        “Is that wise?” asked Chiyoh.  
        Both men turned to look at her. She continued, “Hannibal, do you think Will will ever stop attempting to kill you?”  
        “That conflict may have been resolved tonight,” said Hannibal.  
        “There were two wills,” said Will, eyes unfocused as he recalled himself falling.  
        “The will to save yourself, and the will to merge with another,” said Hannibal.  
        Will blinked and looked at him, suddenly fully present. “Exactly.”  
        Chiyoh looked hesitant, contemplative. “Where will you go?”  
        “It is safe here for the time being,” said Hannibal.  
        Chiyoh smiled slightly at this non-answer. “May I sleep here tonight?”  
        “Of course. Goodnight, and thank you.”  
        She bowed gracefully, then walked down the hallway to the guest room.  
        “Do you love her?” asked Will.  
        “Her mind has a startling purity. Like a zen poem.”  
        “Three years you’ve been away, and she’s still protecting you.”  
        They gazed at each other. Eventually, Will said, “When you asked if it was good to see you...after all that time. I said _no_ because it was better than good.”  
        “You had trouble accepting that.”  
        “A lot of trouble.”  
        “You can embrace it, now.”  
        “Mmm-hmm. Does it make you happy to know that?”  
        “Indescribably.”  
        They lapsed into companionable silence. Hannibal checked Will’s pulse again. It had slowed somewhat. He checked Will’s bleeding and saw that it had almost stopped. He cleaned the wounds with saline and got out an assortment of surgical needles and suture from his medical bag, along with a hypodermic and a small bottle of anesthetic. “You can skip the shot,” Will said.  
        Hannibal nodded and knelt down beside Will’s shoulder. He worked unhurriedly, first putting in dissolvable stitches to bring the deep layers of tissue together. Then he switched to a smaller needle for the skin, making tiny stitches to minimize scarring.  He covered it with a bandage and said, “I’m going to suture your cheek from the inside, then the outside.”  
        Will’s mind was flooded with the memory of a plastic tube being forced down his throat. He found it strange that he’d been drugged and abused by the man who now sought to heal his wounds, whose fingers he now permitted into his mouth. The past seemed like a stranger's horrific story, more than a little unreal.  
        The present felt exquisitely real. Will was thrilled by the smell of Hannibal’s sweat and blood, the smell of the ocean borne on the cool air that breezed through the shattered window, the dull pain in his shoulder, the delicate tug of the suture as Hannibal finished the stitches, Hannibal’s skillful fingers applying a bandage to his face, Hannibal’s warm steady presence beside him, radiating care beyond words, and when they locked eyes, the electricity of their minds touching. “I see now. Anxiety was such a distraction,” said Will.  
        “Worry prevents one from enjoying the moment.”  
        Hannibal glanced at the IV bag and saw that it was empty. He switched it for a full one, then checked his own bandage, unwrapping it slowly. The bleeding seemed under control, so he gingerly removed his shirt. He examined the hole in the back of the shirt closely, making sure that the torn fabric was not missing any pieces. He was not in the mood to perform self-surgery at the moment. Satisfied that all the fabric was there, he proceeded to clean and bandage the wounds more carefully, aware of Will’s eyes on him the whole time. Will said, “You give the impression of being indestructible.”  
        “There is considerable luck involved. I feel especially lucky tonight.”  
        “Such a beautiful night.”  
        Will closed his eyes. Some pinkness had returned to his skin, so Hannibal did not insist that he stay alert in order to monitor his condition. He watched Will drift into a deep sleep. He watched him for a long time, taking his pulse at intervals.  
        The temptation to manipulate was nearly overpowering, habitual as it was. Hannibal did not entirely trust that Will's shift in demeanor was not a result of blood loss, yet he was not confused or agitated, and they understood each other as usual. With the right combination of pharmacological and psychological treatment, Hannibal could be sure of the change becoming permanent. This was the moment to begin such a process, with Will vulnerable, trusting, and agreeable. This thought struck Hannibal as monstrous, which was usually not a problem.  
        Hannibal was honest with himself. The need – even fetish – for control was not playing well with the desire for love between equals. It would be a shame to mistake reality for illusion, to choke its breathing beauty and rob them both of true happiness.  
        He checked Will’s pulse once more. It was stronger than before. Hannibal went to the kitchen and selected a butcher knife, then stepped outside into the darkness, eager for a distraction.


	2. Broken and Whole

        It was still dark when Will woke up. He saw Hannibal crouched near the broken window, silhouetted in the light. “How do you feel?” asked the doctor.  
        “Better. I was dreaming of a teacup. It was falling...it fell slower and slower as it got closer to the floor. I felt like it would never get there. Like a mathematical curve that approaches zero but never touches it.”  
        “An asymptote. From the Greek _asumptōtos_ , meaning ‘not falling together.’”  
        “Hmm.”  
        Will closed his eyes again. “I could hear it breaking, though.”  
        “Did it sound like this?” asked Hannibal, kneeling down and sweeping a few shards of glass into a dustpan, then tipping them into a wastebasket.  
        It made a soft, musical, tinkling sound. Will smiled. “Yes, that was it.”  
        “I’ve intruded on your dream.”  
        “It was your teacup anyway.”  
        Will stretched and stood up. He promptly sat back down on the couch, clutching the IV stand as his vision dimmed and receded into a grey tunnel. Hannibal was next to him in an instant. He turned on the lamp next to the couch and checked Will’s blood pressure. “On the very low end of normal,” he said as he removed the stethoscope from his ears. “Take your time standing up, but the IV can come out.”  
        Hannibal removed the needle. A droplet of blood welled up in the crook of Will’s elbow; Hannibal hesitated, admiring it. He turned to get some gauze, and when he turned back Will was offering his arm, the droplet glistening like a single caviar egg on the translucent bone china of his skin. Hannibal accepted the offering, the blood wicking to his inner lip as he kissed the puncture.  
        Hannibal said, “The master bedroom is at the end of the hall to the left. There’s a very comfortable en suite bathroom. Please enjoy it, but try not to get your stitches wet. There are pajamas, if you’d like, in the top left drawer of the bedroom dresser. You were only asleep for about an hour.”  
        The bathroom was indeed very comfortable, and well-stocked with an assortment of deliciously fragrant Florentine soaps, shampoos, lotions, and aftershaves. Will’s hair was matted down with dried sweat and his skin felt tight with it, ready to be shed. He undressed, got into the tub and soaped himself thoroughly with a washcloth and hot water, careful to avoid the stitches. He was happy to be clean, free from the remnants of his former life.  
        He got out of the tub and toweled off. He brushed his teeth and spit out foam tinged pink with blood, admiring the beauty of the toothbrush, its natural bristles and handle of white horn. Not for the first time, he noticed the elegance of everything Hannibal owned, down to the smallest detail. Could he now count himself among Hannibal’s possessions? _Not looking like that_ , he thought, glancing in the mirror at his tangled hair, four days of stubble, and the dark circles beneath his eyes. He had to wait to shave; the bandaged interfered. He combed his hair and put on the blue silk pajamas that he’d found –folded and tied with a ribbon– in the dresser.  
        The pajamas fit perfectly; they were Will’s size, not Hannibal’s. Will suspected that Hannibal had bought them some time ago in anticipation of leaving together with Abigail. An intimate gift that felt like such a compliment on his skin that it made him blush, as if Hannibal’s eyes were appraising him.  
        Will entered the bedroom and got under the covers. The mattress was exceedingly comfortable. He took off his wedding ring and put it in the small drawer of the nightstand beside the bed, feeling only a fleeting twinge of guilt.  
        He wondered if Hannibal would be joining him. Will had made his desires known, but not explicitly so. There was plenty of time for that. He stretched out and relaxed into a long night of blessedly dreamless sleep.  
  
      
        “Good morning, Will. How did you sleep?” asked Hannibal, lowering the volume on the television.  
        Will stood in the doorway, feeling shy in his pajamas as Hannibal’s eyes drank him in. Hannibal was wearing a three-piece suit with a paisley tie and pocket square. Will wondered how many suits the doctor owned. Will said, “I slept very well, thank you. I feel a little underdressed.”  
        “Your trousers were bloodied. Unfortunately, the stains didn’t come out. I hope you’ll forgive me for throwing them away. Please borrow anything you desire. If you’d like to order some clothing to fit, I have many good sources that deliver promptly.”  
        “I’m sure you do. I’m also sure you’ve noticed I don’t have any fashion sense. If you don’t mind, maybe you could order some stuff for me?”  
        Hannibal smiled. He might have sung hallelujah, if he allowed his true enthusiasm to show. “I certainly don’t mind.”  
        Will’s history of obvious sartorial distress had long ago prompted Hannibal to create a generous walk-in closet for his friend in his memory palace. It would be extremely satisfying to see the designs realized. “I don’t have much of a budget,” said Will.  
        Hannibal frowned, nearly imperceptibly. “Please don’t concern yourself with that. Above all else, it is important that you experience beauty, comfort, and pleasure.”  
        “Well...umm...thank you.”  
        “You are most welcome.”  
        Will’s attention was caught by the television screen, where an image of himself and Hannibal was displayed, underneath a banner that read: HANNIBAL LECTER HAS ESCAPED. Hannibal raised the volume, just as the reporter spoke the word _cannibalism_. She continued, “The two may be traveling together and are considered armed and dangerous. The FBI and local authorities are eager for any tips as to their whereabouts. FBI profiler Will Graham, who is part of the investigation in the Tooth Fairy case, had previously been institutionalized at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, the same-”  
        Hannibal muted the volume. “It isn’t right for them to bring that up. You were exonerated.”  
        Will watched as the images changed, a slideshow of photos of the both of them: Hannibal in his mask, himself in a very similar mask, followed by FBI mug shots. Will wondered if Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom had finally given up on him. For their own sanity, he hoped they had. “The idea of a killer dyad is more exciting to the viewers,” he said.  
        “Is that what we are?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “If I recall correctly, a typical criminal dyad includes a charismatic, psychopathic, sadistic leader and a dependent, submissive, depressive follower.”  
        “That’s correct. Hannibal...I pushed us off a cliff. People who attempt suicide are inescapably depressed.”  
        “Last night you said you weren’t sure you could be saved and that was just fine. I didn’t consider that you meant suicide. Afterwards, you seemed changed, as if it were a necessary catharsis.”  
        “It was. I don’t feel depressed now. Not at all, in fact, the opposite. I’m not sure what’s happening. I think I might be in a state of psychosis.”  
        “Psychosis is characterized by delusion. What do you believe your delusion to be?”  
        “I died last night. I saw myself die. But I’m still here...not sure who is speaking. Not sure if this is real. If this is Hell. And if this _is_ Hell, why it feels so good. Why I keep questioning if it’s all right to... _enjoy_ Hell. And to fall in love with the Devil.”  
        “Whose approval are you waiting for? Trust yourself. All higher authority is corrupt.”  
        Hannibal meant it, he wasn’t just saying what he thought Will wanted to hear. His words were honest and not intended to be particularly comforting. After all, it is terrifying to _trust yourself_ when you are lacking a solid idea of who _you_ are. Will was watching him curiously; it occurred to the doctor that Will might be scrutinizing him for manipulation, the very impulse he was trying to resist. Will said, “I need a psychiatrist, there’s no denying that.”  
        He took a few slow steps toward Hannibal and added, “I know what I want.”  
        The front door of the cottage opened; Will started. “It’s Chiyoh,” said Hannibal. “She went out for groceries.”  
        Will blushed, embarrassed by the interruption. Hannibal stood up and touched the bandage-less side of Will’s face, feeling the heat under the skin. He slid his fingers along the shorter man’s neck until they were resting at the nape, and pulled him very slightly closer. “Are you hungry?” Hannibal asked, voice low.  
        Will murmured, “Yes.”  
        “Do you like coffee or tea?”  
        “What are you having?”  
        Hannibal leaned closer and breathed in Will’s scent. “That bergamot soap has me in the mood for Earl Grey.”  
        “S-sounds good. I’ll get dressed.”  
         Will had never given much thought to clothes. Growing up poor, his father had procured nearly all of their clothing at thrift stores. Style was not important, only function, and other than the cheap black suit he had worn to his grandmother’s funeral, he had never had a reason to look _presentable_ as a youth. When he arrived at college he observed those around him and adapted his wardrobe in order to blend in. There was no dress code for the teachers at the FBI academy, and Will had preferred to lecture with the lights dimmed. When things wore out he replaced them, but he had never experienced the fun some people got out of shopping.  
        Will now stood in front of the open closet in the master bedroom, searching for something that didn’t make him feel like he was putting on a costume. There was nothing casual: no denim, no khaki, and certainly no canvas. He chose a pair of black slacks that looked narrow enough to fit without looking ridiculous. He put on a white shirt, realized he looked like a waiter, and chose a light grey blazer to put over it. He wasn’t sure about ties and didn’t know what to do with pocket squares, so he left it at that.  
        He saw that Hannibal had put his shoes near the foot of the bed and his gun on the dresser. The gun was loaded, just as Will had left it. The shoes had been polished. Will put them on, then took them off again, not sure that the brown leather went with the rest of the outfit. He combed his hair. He wanted to look good. He had never felt that way before. Will put the gun in the nightstand.  
        Hannibal was carrying plates to the table when Will entered the dining area. Earlier that morning, Will had been intent on finding Hannibal and hadn’t noticed that the mess from the night before had been completely tidied. A large sheet of clear plastic was taped over the broken window, the glass had been swept up, the floor mopped...even the wine-stained chair near the door had its cushions removed. Will glanced outside and saw that the body was gone. It was almost as if nothing had happened, though he had not looked in the refrigerator.  
        He approached the table. Chiyoh was seated on one side, and Will sat across from her, next to the empty place setting for Hannibal. Will noticed the arrangement of the settings; Hannibal could have put himself at the head of the table but had not chosen to do so. As things were, the doctor sat beside Will and across from no one. Will was in the seat of power.       
        Breakfast was an omelette of fresh herbs and goat cheese, accompanied by a fruit salad. Tea was served after, with cream and honey. When the meal was over, Chiyoh rose from the table and said, “I’m going to Lithuania to tend to the estate. Perhaps I shall see you both there someday soon.”  
        She looked at Will, an unspoken plea and a sense of resignation in her eyes. She bowed to both of them, gathered her bags, and left as quietly as she had arrived.  
        Hannibal cleared the table. He washed the plates and flatware by hand. Will helped him dry and put it all away. Will found himself trying to memorize where everything belonged, as though he had just moved in. “Is this my home?” he asked.  
        “I hope to make a home with you. Unfortunately, we can’t stay here indefinitely.”  
        Will looked out the window. Like in the living room, the pane was huge. “I like how there isn’t much separation between the inside and outside. With just nature around.”  
        “Would you care to walk the property together? There is a path down to the ocean, and a fishing pole and tackle if the mood strikes you.”  
        Will nodded. He didn’t necessarily want to catch anything, but the meditative quality of fishing did appeal to him at the moment. Hannibal lent him a wool overcoat and they set off from the house, keeping well away from the edge of the cliff.  
      
     


	3. Catch and Release

 

     
        Will cast the line out again. He found the small cove very pleasant. It was secluded and wild, with large boulders that crowded against the eroding cliff. Hannibal was sitting and sketching, looking at Will repeatedly even though he could have drawn him perfectly from memory. There was a rare joy to his expression, and Hannibal wanted to capture it. “Why is it we can’t stay here?” asked Will, smiling.  
        “You would endure this Hell, with me?”  
        Will nodded, still smiling. “Are you worried they’ll track us here?”  
        “No. This property and all services and deliveries belong to one of my alternate identities. We have to leave because I want to visit some friends of ours.”  
        “Ah. Places to go, people to eat. Alana and her family?”  
        “Alana tried to make me suffer.”  
         _Tried_ was not entirely accurate. Alana had been absolutely precise in her cruelty and Hannibal had felt it, though he was loath to admit it aloud. If not for his memory palace, the last leg of his incarceration would have been unendurable. “Is there any way you might find it acceptable to leave them alone?” asked Will.  
        Hannibal thought it over. He had been looking forward to destroying Alana’s life. “You still have feelings for her.”  
        “Nothing romantic, if that’s what you mean. Alana was my friend. She tried her best to protect me, help me, and save me from myself. Margot and their son have done nothing to you.”       
        “Alana does care deeply for you. She freed me at Muskrat Farm so I would rescue you and see that you remain safe. I gave her my word.”      
        “If she dies, are you still obligated to keep that promise?”  
        “Do you think it’s the only thing stopping me from hurting you?”  
        Will looked him in the eyes. There was no mistaking the compassion; Hannibal was not hiding it. “I don’t think so, no.”  
        Will reeled in the lure and cast again, with his left arm, not wanting to irritate the stitches in his right shoulder. With one smooth stroke, Hannibal added a fishing line to his drawing. “I can accept sparing them if you’ll eat Bedelia with me.”  
        “Okay.”  
        Hannibal turned the page and began a new drawing. Will asked, “What constitutes ‘hurting’, exactly?”  
        “Any action that infringes on your autonomy. Any action without consent.”  
        “Is that why you gave me back my gun even though I was behaving unpredictably?”  
        “I believe in free will. Taking away your gun would be akin to putting you in a straitjacket. We’ve both spent too long in restraints.”  
        The word ‘restraints’, as expressed by that singular mouth, unexpectedly conjured up an erotic vision the likes of which Will had never experienced. Hannibal’s slightly soft pronunciation of the letter _r_ –soft but controlled– married the sound of the word with its meaning: Will imagined stiff leather cuffs lined in sheepskin, the feeling of being held securely, Hannibal tightening the straps. The vision deepened, and Will’s eyes closed halfway.  
        During his stay at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, though his mind had grown more focused, his nightmares had increased in intensity. He would wake with bruised and bloodied knuckles, muscles aching. On multiple occasions, Frederick Chilton had had him placed in bed restraints at night, and Will did not deny that it had helped. He even requested them during the particularly torturous week leading up to the trial. “Actually, I find restraints can be comforting. They make me feel...safe,” Will said.  
        “Being restrained can be quite unsafe, depending entirely on who does the restraining.”  
        “Could I trust you?”  
        Hannibal’s pencil paused for a moment. “I have no intention of hurting you under any circumstances. Giving me control would be mutually gratifying, but it might prove rather unhealthy in the long run.”  
        “We haven’t had the healthiest relationship.”  
        “Not so far.”  
        “That's what you want, a healthy relationship?”  
        “If it’s possible.”  
        “Why wouldn’t it be?”  
        “I have little experience. Except for Mischa. She loved me, and I loved her.”  
        “Your love for her was out of your control. Inconvenient to your nature. Just as your feelings for me are inconvenient.”  
        “I ate her in order to forgive her for that. I mistakenly thought I had to eat you, too.”  
        “Mistakenly?”  
        “I interpreted your attempts on my life as rejection, but you were just afraid of what you were becoming.”  
        “If Mischa had grown up and learned the truth, she may not have been able to continue to accept you unconditionally, as I do. You can love me without betraying yourself. So, no need to eat me.”  
        “You accept me, yet refer to me as the Devil.”  
        “Most people can’t empathize with the Devil.”  
        A tug on the line. Will set the hook and reeled in a small fish. Hannibal rose and came closer to observe. The fish’s scales were silver, and shined brightly in the sun. Will said, “It’s a salmon smolt. A rare and endangered species.”  
        Will carefully removed the hook and put the fish back in the water. The tide had begun to come in. The beach was disappearing by increments. “Hannibal, would you trust me to restrain you?”  
        “I abhor the sensation. However, if I trusted anyone, it would be you.”  
        Will stepped close to him, close enough to touch. “I have no intention of hurting you, either. I’ll prove it to you...and maybe your feelings won’t trouble you as much.”  
        “I am less troubled today than yesterday,” said Hannibal, caressing the unscathed side of Will’s face.  
        He moved his hand to the back of Will’s neck, just as he had done earlier, except this time he leaned forward and kissed the shorter man very gently on the mouth. Will returned the kiss eagerly, then rested their foreheads together and said, “You’re cold. We’d better go back.”  
        When they returned to the house, Will noticed that the police car was gone from the garage, with a black sedan in its place. Hannibal explained, “Chiyoh took the police car this morning and left it at the Philadelphia airport, then took a train to a different airport, where she caught a flight. When they find the missing car, it should keep them busy for a while.”  
        They entered the house, hung up their coats. “Are we going to meet her in Lithuania?”  
        “She urged me to make a decision about the estate. She said it would be a shame to let it fall to ruin. I’m inclined to let it do just that.”  
        “I created something there for you.”  
        Hannibal waited for Will to elaborate. He didn’t. “May I ask what it is?”  
        “It’s meant to be viewed in person.”  
        Hannibal narrowed his eyes playfully. The idea of going back to Lithuania made him slightly nauseated, but his curiosity was piqued. He thought about it while preparing lunch, and nearly overcooked the tenderloin in his distraction. He poked his head into the living room, where Will was reading _Against Nature_ , a book that Hannibal had recommended. “Care for some wine with our meal?”  
        Will looked up and nodded. Hannibal ducked into the kitchen and returned with another bottle of the red that had gone to waste the previous night. He poured one full glass and handed it to Will, then poured himself a much shorter glass. “You’re not drinking?”  
        “Just a taste. I don’t think my liver would appreciate it in its current state.”  
        Will had almost forgotten about the gunshot wound; the doctor did not move like an injured man. Hannibal raised his glass and said, “To rare and endangered species.”  
        Will laughed, raised his glass, and they both drank.  
        Lunch went well. Hannibal was encouraged by the fact that Will had no reservations about the meat. Chiyoh had been rigorous in fulfilling Hannibal’s shopping list, and so there was lavender crème brûlée for dessert. After everything was washed and put away, Hannibal refilled Will’s glass. Will gestured to the harpsichord. “Play for me?”  
        Hannibal seated himself at the bench and began to play Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Will reclined on a chair and closed his eyes, taking a sip of wine every so often. Hannibal had only been playing for a few minutes when Will got up. “May I sit next to you? I want to hear it as you hear it.”  
        “Of course.”  
        After Will had seated himself, Hannibal added lightly, “You don’t have to ask my permission to do something like that.”  
        Will blushed. “I don’t want to be rude.”  
        Hannibal laughed. “You are possibly the most considerate person in the world.”  
        Will drained his glass. “May I-” he started, paused to gather his wits, then placed his hand just above Hannibal’s knee.  
        “Are you enjoying the music?”  
        “Yes, very much.”  
        “It’s my favorite. Delightfully mathematical.”  
        “And pretty,” said Will, smiling.  
        Hannibal breathed deeply, taking in the smell of his companion: the slightly sulfurous briny green of the ocean, the lingering bergamot soap, the tannic dark fruit of the wine, a slight sheen of sweat –excitement, not fear; Hannibal could tell the difference– the exudate of his healing wounds, and underneath it the aroma of the man himself, which he knew well: to Hannibal, Will smelled faintly and intoxicatingly of white truffles.  
        He played all of the variations. After he finished the Aria de Capo, Hannibal rested his hand on top of Will’s, which had advanced considerably up his thigh, and whispered, “You've kept me in suspense all day. Tell me what you want.”  
        “I’d rather show you.”  
        He took Hannibal by the hand and led him to the bedroom.


	4. Sacred and Profane

        Hannibal Lecter was a terrific lover. His expertise in anatomy and physiology accounted for some of it, but there was also his sensation-seeking nature to consider, along with a curious and varied appetite. An indelible streak of perfectionism lent structure and discipline to the hedonism, elevating it to an art form. Ultimately, it was his keen attention and adaptation to the responses of his partner that made him truly masterful.  
        Will Graham was woefully outclassed, at least from a technical and experiential standpoint. He made up for it with enthusiasm, instinctual grace, and expressiveness. He was completely without affectation, which thrilled Hannibal because it was so unlike himself.  
        Even after the betrayals and manipulations and attempted murders, even after an honest tally of the dead, maimed, digested, and partially digested, even after an objective look at who was responsible for what and to what degree, when Hannibal looked at Will he saw an innocent man.  
        Hannibal watched him slowly writhing on the white sheets like a saint in ecstasy, and found himself inspired.  
        Will was indeed ecstatic. Wave after wave of pleasure washed over him, without the threat of drowning that such experiences used to entail. Freedom from worry made everything much _much_ better; he had never felt so happy to be in his body.  
        They lay together for hours, taking their time getting accustomed to each other’s touch. Hannibal traced his fingers over the horizontal line on Will’s forehead, small nicks on his face, two bullet wounds on the shoulder with a new mark in the making, and the large crescent moon near his bellybutton. A constellation of pain. “All lines lead back to you,” said Will. “What do you feel when you look at these scars?”  
        “Grateful.”  
        “You don’t find them ugly?”  
        “Not at all. Do you?”  
        “I used to.”  
        “And now?”  
        “Now I feel...blessed.”  
        They exhausted themselves. Hannibal had not slept the night before, and the blood loss had taken more of a toll than he was letting on. Despite himself, he fell asleep first, and Will covered him with the blanket. Will watched him sleep until his own eyelids grew irresistibly heavy.  
        When he opened his eyes he saw himself standing by the bed, dripping wet and bleeding from the cut in his face. Paralyzed, he watched himself open the drawer of the bedside table and take out the gun, still loaded. This other self then knelt down and pushed the gun barrel into Will’s mouth. Will could feel Hannibal’s breath on the back of his neck, soft and warm. As he spiraled into panic, the other self calmly checked the trajectory, making sure it would kill them both, then said, “It was never going to work”, and pulled the trigger.  
        Will woke hyperventilating, the bedding soaked with sweat, the howling horror of his inner landscape as present as ever. He had wandered through this sere territory for such a long time, incapable of sheltering himself. Hannibal had been right about that. Hannibal had also changed that. Will thought he had finally found a safe place to build, even in the darkness that stretched in all directions. A moonlit meadow with large stones, where he could insulate himself from the shrieking of predators and prey. He hadn’t built fast enough.  
        “Will.”  
        Reality threatened to crush him, the shame was suffocating, the sheets sodden, like he had pissed himself. He couldn’t move. “Will. Focus on your breathing. Breathe out longer than you breathe in.”  
        Using this technique, Will gradually calmed, but the embarrassment remained. “I’m sorry,” he eventually managed.  
        “Sorry for what?”  
        “Disturbing your sleep. This is sort of routine for me. I thought maybe it would stop, but I guess not. I’ll...get a towel.”  
        “No need. I’ll change the sheets.”  
        “I’ll just sweat through them again. My nightmares are persistent.”  
        “Maybe I can help.”  
        “How?”  
        “I’ll change the sheets. You take a shower, not hot or cold, then come back to bed. You can take off the bandages.”  
        Will wasn’t sure how that was going to help, but he obeyed. Usually he wanted a very cold shower after a nightmare, but he listened to Hannibal and kept the water lukewarm. He left the towel in the bathroom and got back into bed. Hannibal said, “It will help if we’re in contact. Is that all right?”  
        Will nodded. Hannibal slid closer and put an arm around Will’s chest. The pressure was reassuring, but Will could feel Hannibal’s breath on his neck, and it reminded him too much of the dream. He felt his own breath start to get away from him again. “Breathe with me,” said Hannibal. “You don’t have to tell me about it unless you want to, but imagine the nightmare. Imagine it in detail, and then imagine a safe ending.”  
        In his mind Will saw himself, the gun, felt the gun push past his teeth, felt the terror setting in, the end of happiness, all arriving in a flood that felt unstoppable. His breath hitched. Hannibal squeezed him. “You can do it. Go back and try again.”  
        Will went back to the beginning. He saw himself by the bed. Saw himself open the drawer and reach inside...this time taking out the wedding band instead of the gun. Turning it over in his fingers, thinking. Looking at Will and Hannibal in bed together, sound asleep and peaceful. Understanding, accepting. Closing the drawer and with one last glance leaving the room, leaving the house, leaving their universe, never to return.  
        Will found the meadow quiet, ringed now with fragrant night-blooming flowers. As he watched, the stones assembled themselves into a cottage, effortlessly following an unconscious blueprint. Inside was a large hearth and an old wooden bed, where he fell into a blissful slumber. The world within his mind turned, and he awoke to a room dappled in jewel-colored light, the sun shining through a stained glass rose window he had not known was there.  



	5. Dissonance and Harmony

        Jack Crawford rubbed his eyes. He was in extremely deep trouble with his superiors, and he was tired.  
        It had been one week since the escape, and the FBI had exhausted their leads. An examination of the police car found at the Philadelphia International Airport had revealed the fingerprints of Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, which at least gave them something to work with. Will’s fingerprints on the passenger side, Hannibal driving. Jack didn’t have Will’s empathy, but he didn’t need it to know that his friend had gone willingly. Jack hoped that Will had the strength to do the right thing, the thing they had planned for more than once. Will was an acceptable sacrifice to ensure Hannibal’s death, and lately he had seemed to accept that role.  
        Hours of airport security video had been pored over. Unfortunately, the parking lot surveillance camera closest to the car was malfunctioning, and video from inside the terminal yielded nothing. Will might be disguised without much trouble, but Hannibal had a way of standing out in a crowd. Jack concluded that they had not left that way, if they had left at all.  
        Special Agents Jimmy Price and Brian Zeller had examined the car’s tires for soil evidence. From the samples they gathered they determined that the search could be narrowed to the coast spanning from Massachusetts far north into Canada. If it had been later in the season there might have been distinctive pollen grains or vegetation, but snow still covered much of the region and all they had to go on was, in Zeller’s words, a “relatively ubiquitous sandy mixture.”  
        Jack was eager to speak with Bedelia Du Maurier, but she could not be located. Jack believed that she was occupying a spot just beneath Alana on the menu, and that she would have done well to come to the FBI for protection, since getting Hannibal back in custody was her best bet at survival. Jack understood why she hadn’t turned to them for help. The FBI had lost him, and they had not caught him in the first place.  
        He sighed deeply and hung his head, took a sip of whiskey, feeling his age. He missed Bella, missed the feeling of meaning and purpose that her presence had stirred in him. Jack wasn’t sure what he was doing, anymore, or why. His heart ached.  
        Still, he persisted. Searching thousands of miles of coastline would likely prove an exercise in futility, but Jack sent out extra bulletins to law enforcement within the area of interest.

  
  
        “I hate to say it...I _really_ do...but Mason’s plan was effective,” said Margot Verger, stirring her martini.  
        “It’s more therapeutic if you drink that,” said Alana Bloom.  
        Margot bit one of the olives off the skewer, chewing contemplatively. Under Alana’s advice she had begun to expose herself to things that triggered unpleasant memories of her late brother, in an attempt to free herself from all traces of his influence. “I guess I’m not supposed to think about him while I drink it.”  
        “The idea is to disassociate it from Mason and re-associate it with something positive.”  
        Margot gazed at her wife and took a sip, admiring her loveliness and trying to ignore the signs of worry: slightly squinted eyes and a subtle vertical crease between the brows.  
        Margot felt safe. They were hiding from a violent psychopath who wanted to serve them for dinner, true, but Margot had grown up conditioned to fear what was at home far more than any attack from the outside world. Since making a home with Alana, who treated her with complete respect and pure affection, she had lost that fear. She knew that Alana had witnessed and been victim to much more of Hannibal’s behavior than she had, she took her at her word that he was capable of destroying them, but she just couldn’t summon the same level of concern. Wealth provided the resources they needed to hide and protect themselves. “He can’t find us.”  
        “You’re probably right. But I’ve learned it’s not wise to assume anything about Hannibal.”  
        “Well...all I’m saying is, there is _that_ recourse.”  
        “It _is_ a crime. A very serious crime.”  
        Margot ate another olive, thought of something pleasant –their son, sleeping soundly upstairs– and smiled. “Who cares about that, as long as it helps you sleep at night.”  
        Alana returned her smile.    
  
  
     
        The abundance of packages that arrived at the house was a bit disconcerting to Will, considering that the clothes within were all meant for him. Hannibal had done the ordering as he said he would, and perhaps gone a little overboard. Will watched Hannibal unpack everything and put it directly into the closet. Hannibal glanced at him, taking in his uneasiness. “Clothes are like the frame for a painting, Will. Fine art deserves a fine frame.”  
        Will laughed. “Am I _fine art_?”  
        “You are an incomparable and irreplaceable masterpiece. Not a Thomas Kinkade print.”  
        Will pictured those idyllic and sentimental paintings, which often featured cottages and chapels in the woods. “Funny you should say that,” Will said without thinking.  
        Hannibal stopped arranging shoes to listen. Will shook his head as if to dispel the thought and mumbled, “It’s nothing.”  
        “Nothing?” Hannibal looked at him, tea-colored eyes penetrating but warm.  
        Will wasn’t sure why he was so nervous. He had told Hannibal many of his most intimate thoughts, and had never been met with judgment or mockery. Confiding this felt different. It was new and fragile and Will wasn’t sure what it meant. “In my mind, I recently...found a safe place. A small stone cottage, very simple and spare inside, except for a stained glass window.”  
        Hannibal was listening intently, as always. Will continued, “The window...its beauty gives me a deep feeling of peace, but it almost hurts to look at it.”  
        “Does it contain imagery?”  
        “No pictures or symbols, just color...in harmony.”  
        “Are you seeking harmony, Will?”  
        He felt himself blush, as if it were a dirty secret. “Yes.”  
        “Why does that cause you shame?”  
        “The past would have me believe it’s an unrealistic thing to want.”  
        “We followed our own laws of symmetry, but the palette was often muddied by discord. Harmony is a healthy thing to want. It’s a desire we share. Am I welcome to come admire the window with you?”  
        Will nodded. “Am I welcome in your mind?”  
        “Yes, everywhere. There are places I can’t recommend visiting, but I crave and value your company.”  
        Hannibal turned back to the shoes. Will approached him. “Once, when I was feeling very alone, you told me you were standing right beside me in the darkness. I’m standing beside you, too, no matter where we go.”  
        Hannibal felt a pang of tenderness that rose above the strong steady current of devotion he felt towards Will. Wanting Will came easily, and had done so for some time. Needing him was a vulnerability, a weakness that Hannibal was slowly allowing himself to accept. “It feels good to know that.”  
        Will smiled, then shyly dropped his gaze to the shoebox that Hannibal was holding. “Sperry Top-Siders? You’re dressing me as a prep?”  
        “These are for utility, not fashion.”  
        Will frowned in confusion. Hannibal said, “I hope I haven’t overstepped. Will you take a ride with me?”  
        Hannibal drove them to a large warehouse. Will looked around furtively as he got out of the car. “I own this property, too,” said Hannibal.  
        “Is it impertinent to ask how you fund your lifestyle?”  
        “Over the years I have treated many clients, some of whom were quite wealthy and generous enough to include me in their wills.”  
        Will had made it clear that he preferred lies of omission, so he left it at that. Hannibal unlocked the warehouse door and they stepped into the darkness together. The doctor turned on the lights. “You bought a yacht,” said Will.  
        “Is it acceptable?”  
        Will laughed once, more of an uncontrolled exhalation than a true laugh. The yacht was pristine, white, about thirty feet in length, with the simple rigging that Will preferred. “I’m sure you picked an excellent cutter. You want to sail to Europe?”  
        “If it pleases you.”  
        They approached the yacht. Will saw that it was unnamed. There was a small can of black enamel paint on the floor, a paintbrush resting on the lid. Will took a slow lap around the sailboat, Hannibal at his side. “I sailed to Italy to find you, taking my time to sort out how I felt.”  
        “Did you sort it out?”  
        “Not on the water, no. Not until I...sensed you in the Norman chapel.”  
        They arrived back at the stern. Will said, “You have beautiful handwriting, will you paint her name?”  
        Will pointed to a place on the side near the stern. The doctor applied his fine copperplate script with surgical precision, then handed Will the paintbrush. “You paint the other side.”  
        Will went with block letters. He left space between the characters, so  A B I G A I L  read like a breath.                                    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this should have been the last chapter.


	6. Pain and Pleasure

        “June is the best time for a transatlantic crossing,” said Will, glancing at Hannibal over a hardcover copy of _A Brief History of Time_.  
        Hannibal looked up from _The Complete Sailor_ and smiled. The idea of spending three idle months with Will in the cottage held delicious appeal. “More time for me to study.”  
        “Have you sailed before?”  
        “Never.”  
        “I’m sure you’ll be an expert in no time.”  
        “I am a fast learner, but nothing makes up for first-hand experience. In this case, you’re the expert and I will follow your lead. I want to be out of my element. I want you to see all of me.”  
        Will paused before responding. “Are you a strong swimmer?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “Do you get motion sick?”  
        “No.”  
        “Afraid of deep water?”  
        “No.”  
        “Any problem with enclosed spaces?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “Oh.”  
        “I have my way of handling it. Maybe your presence will help.”  
        Will nodded, picturing Hannibal in his room at the hospital for the criminally insane. It was a generous space with a high ceiling, unlike the small cell in which Will had been kept. “You went to your memory palace. I went fishing.”  
        “Hmm?”  
        “In my cell. I spent most of my time fishing.”  
        “When you weren’t thinking about killing me.”  
        Will shrugged and went back to reading. Hannibal asked, “Within the last week, have you had the impulse to try again?”  
        “No. No hallucinations, either. Whatever it is that happened, I don’t think I’m coming back, and I couldn’t be happier about it.”  
        A terrifying thought flashed through Will’s mind and showed on his face. Hannibal said, “You don’t look happy.”  
        “I...I am. But what if it’s encephalitis? They said relapses are common.”  
        “It isn’t that.”  
        “Sorry, but how do you know?”  
        “I would smell it.”  
        Will stared at him appraisingly. “Promise?”  
        “I promise. You seem preoccupied with finding a pathological explanation for your decision.”  
        “My decision?”  
        “To be yourself. You are yourself, the Will I have had the pleasure of getting to know these past years...and more yourself than ever.”  
        “I’m still not exactly sure who that is.”  
        “That’s all right. You are adjusting. You’re like a musical instrument. It is not a flaw that an instrument needs tuning. There is nothing wrong with you.”  
        Will laughed. “Jack thought he broke me. Alana thought Jack broke me. Everyone probably thinks _you_ broke me.”  
        “Do you feel broken?”  
        Will smiled and slowly shook his head.  
        After dinner, Hannibal removed the stitches from his friend’s face. He unfolded a paper clip and used it to check the surrounding skin for areas of diminished or missing sensation, identifying a dime-sized area of numbness below Will’s cheekbone. This was fortunate, considering that the knife could have severed a major sensory or motor nerve and possibly –the most tragic outcome, in Hannibal’s opinion–  partially deprived him of the sense of taste. The scar itself was razor thin and would heal nearly invisibly. The doctor instructed Will to protect it from the sun and massage it regularly to prevent contracture. Will asked for his help with the latter.  
        The massage progressed outward from the scar, over Will’s face and scalp, down the back of his neck and onto his shoulders. Years of stress had tightened his muscles; it would be quite a project to get the tension to release, one that Hannibal relished. “You can go harder,” Will murmured, rolling face-down on the bed.  
        Hannibal increased the pressure only slightly. “Tell me if it hurts. Painful techniques won’t help you heal.”  
        “What about ‘no pain, no gain’?”  
        “Pain causes aversion.”  
        “The pain you inflicted on me in the past didn’t cause aversion.”  
        “You are a bit of a masochist. Is that what drew you to me?”  
        “You know it’s more complex than that.”  
        Hannibal’s hands trailed down Will’s back. “Do you need it to hurt?”  
        “I hope not. Do you need it to be gentle?"  
        “I would rather inflict pleasure on you.”  
        Hannibal heard Will’s breathing grow deeper as he gradually lost consciousness. He continued to gently knead the muscles on either side of his spine until they went completely slack, then kissed him between the dimples of his hips and turned off the light.  
      
        Will was lying on his back, watching Hannibal kiss each rib in succession, moving lower, lower, until he reached the flat, tight abdomen. The smiling scar held particular interest to Hannibal. He rubbed his lips along its curve, and said, “Ideally, I would have given you more time to fatten."  
        Will frowned. “What?”  
        Hannibal sucked a fold of skin between his teeth, braced his hands on Will’s hips, and ripped Will’s scar open with one vicious motion. Mouth coated with blood, he said, “I have taken the liberty of giving you a paralytic.”  
        It occurred to Will to scream, but instead he just stared as Hannibal cut through his abdominal muscles with a scalpel, reached into the open wound and pulled out his intestines, piling them on a silver tray. He neatly severed the stomach from the esophagus and placed it on top, then reached back inside for more. The liver detached with a wet snapping sound. Will said, “I...I thought...”  
        “You thought you found a safe place. You thought I could give you that.”  
        The doctor removed the kidneys and the spleen, arranging them neatly on the tray. He sliced through the diaphragm and parietal pleura, and slid his hands around the lungs. With the last of his breath, Will said, “I’m sorry I failed you.”  
        Hannibal’s eyes were brimming with tears as he wrapped his hands around Will’s heart. There was a wrenching pain and a horrible wetness, the sheets were swamped with blood.  
        Will gasped, struggled with the sweat-soaked bed linens, which were wrapped tightly around his chest, a result of twisting and turning in his sleep. He cursed loudly, feeling out of control. The light turned on and a moment later strong steady hands helped free him from the tangled fabric. Hannibal sat on the edge of the bed. He was still dressed in a suit. “What time is it?” asked Will, once his breathing was under control.  
        “Around midnight. You fell asleep after dinner.”  
        Will was curled on his side, still sweating and trembling slightly. “I’m going to try to change the end of the nightmare.”  
        “Would you prefer to be alone?”  
        “No. Please stay.”  
        Will closed his eyes and started at the beginning. Hannibal kissed his ribs one by one, moving lower, until he reached the scar. He traced it with his lips, then moved further down, hooking his fingers under the waistband of Will’s underwear and pulling them off.  
        Will stroked himself languidly through his wet underwear, the cloth clinging to his flesh. After a few minutes Hannibal said quietly, “I am curious to know what you’re thinking about.”  
        “Your mouth.”  
        “Do you want it?”  
        Will nodded. Hannibal didn’t hesitate. In the valleys between peaks of pleasure, Will forced himself to consider the reality of trusting his body to a cannibal’s mouth. Instead of blocking out the nightmare, he let it in and found that the vivid images did not deter him; the cruelty caused no aversion. He felt himself unwinding. Hannibal took him over the edge and savored every drop as if it were a rarefied liqueur.  
        Hannibal ran a bath and pulled up a chair, and Will soon discovered that he liked being washed. Hannibal’s ministrations were careful and loving. Will noticed for the first time that he used an especially delicate touch across his forehead and belly, as if wary of triggering potential sources of fear. Until that moment, Will had not considered that Hannibal might be afraid.


	7. Hypnos and Eros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They'll get out of bed someday. I hope you like my slow somnolent storytelling. zzzZZZ

  
        Will Graham woke in the night to the sound of screams. He bolted upright and then sat very still, muscles tensed, paralyzed by the thought that the noise might only be a product of his mind.  He listened for minutes, comparing the sound to what he had heard in Wolf Trap back when his brain was on fire, when Alana Bloom had looked into his eyes with an unnerving sense of concern and then turned to leave. She could tell that he was hallucinating and it scared her. It would have been sensible of her to drive him to the hospital immediately.  Still, Will did not blame her.  Alana had continued to try to help him long after she believed him to be a killer, and she held others responsible for turning him into what he became.  She was loyal to him in her way, but could not understand.  
        The screaming continued; Will sat stock-still.  He thought that if he glanced down at the shape beside him he would see something charcoal black, antlered, with silver-white eyes.  Something fearful that could not help being what it was, and had shamelessly guided him to the truth.  
        Will could feel eyes on him.  It seemed an interminable wait until a voice spoke. “Coyotes.”  
        Then he dared look down.  Hannibal was facing him, lying on his side. His appearance was unearthly at times, but now he looked quite human, features illuminated by soft moonlight. His hair was unkempt, falling into his face and lending him a boyish aspect. His eyes were clear, calm, and welcoming.  Will fought the impulse, common now these days, to throw himself on Hannibal and disappear. His rational mind stopped him: he wouldn’t disappear, he would feel desperately needy, gripped by an insatiable hunger.  He lay back down.  As if sensing his desire to be touched, Hannibal placed a hand over Will’s heart.  
        Sleep seldom came easily to Dr. Lecter.  He often admired Will as he slept, touched by the beauty of his vulnerability, curious about the contents of his dreams. When he pictured himself that way he resented the loss of control.    
        As a psychiatrist, he could not ignore the strong chance that Will would attempt violence again.  As a man in love, he hoped against reason that they could be good for each other.  Something Bedelia had said during one of their sessions kept coming back to him, almost like a lyric: _you cannot function as an agent of friendship for a man who is disconnected from the concept, as a man who is disconnected from the concept._  
        Disconnected from the concept, maybe, but not disconnected from Will Graham. Concepts could be learned; Hannibal was confident of that.  Though he had never had a friend before, he knew there were things that friends, by the common definition, did and did not do to each other.  He was learning to sort his own thoughts and actions accordingly, and had already put firm ground rules in place.  Will was still changing him; he had to accept it as healthy and allow it to progress even though it threatened to unseal certain doors he would prefer to keep shut.  Ignoring them was dangerous, throwing them wide open was dangerous. A careful approach was required.  
        Will had drifted off again.  Hannibal shifted closer and hid his face in the dark waves of the other man’s hair.       
  
        The whimpering started quietly and slowly grew more insistent.  On the screen of his eyelids, heavy with sleep, Will saw a coyote savaging its prey.  The whimper turned into a thin anguished scream, unquestionably human.  His eyes snapped open and he turned towards Hannibal, who was shaking with choked sobs.  The doctor let out another cry, a sound so pained and hollow it made Will wince. He stroked his face and said, “It’s all right. Wake up, now.”  
        The sobbing stopped the instant he regained consciousness, but Will could feel his heartbeat reverberating through the mattress. After a long moment, Hannibal said, “Thank you.”  
        Hannibal was demonstrative, especially in their intimate moments, but the nightmare had exposed something raw and different.  Hannibal smoothed his hair; Will wished he hadn’t.  Before the moment was lost, Will asked, “You okay?”  
        “Even in my dreams I can’t make a place for Mischa.”  
        “What happened to her?”  
        “Do you recall the forest surrounding the house in Lithuania?  There are miles of logging paths.  We explored them as children.  As we grew older, she liked to walk alone in the morning.  One day she hadn’t returned by lunchtime.  I found her.  She had been raped and strangled by the man you saw in the cellar.  The man Chiyoh did not want me to kill.  Since she was dead, I ate her.”  
        “I am so sorry.  Chiyoh told me part of it.  I didn’t believe it.”  
        “You thought I killed her.”  
        “Yeah, I did.  If she were alive, would you still be a cannibal?”  
        “I might have tried to resist my natural inclination.  Though she was my first, people had always seemed edible.  Are you trying to diagnose me?”  
        “No.  You defy diagnosis.  As you say, you were always different...it wasn’t precipitated by trauma.  Yet, you’re capable of selective empathy.  I dreamt you gutted me...you were crying as you did it.  It helped me to see your fear.  You don’t want it to end like that.”  
        “It would be extremely regrettable.”  
        “And on some level, extremely enjoyable.”  
        “While I can’t deny that you would ruin me for any other flavor, I prefer the world with you in it.”          
        Will smiled in the dark. “You can’t have my heart and eat it, too.”  
        Hannibal laughed, then said quietly, “As long as I have your heart.”  
        "It’s all yours.”  
        They reached out in unison and brought their bodies together.    
      
      
  
  
  
  



	8. Risk and Reward

        Hannibal paused in his playing, picked up a fountain pen, and added several notes to his composition. He heard a floorboard creak, and turned to see Will standing in a grey silk dressing gown, tentatively holding a straight razor. Will glanced sheepishly at the staff paper and said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”  
        Hannibal held the pen for a moment longer, realized he was priming himself for an attack that was not coming, and set it down. “I invite your interruptions.”  
        “I, um...don’t know how to use this. Do you have a different kind of razor?”  
        “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that. What do you use?”  
        “A Bic. You know...when I remember.”  
        The idea of Will shaving with a cheap plastic razor very nearly made Hannibal shudder. “I think you’ll prefer the straight razor.”  
        Will looked unsure, but he nodded and said, “I’ll give it a try. Get the suture ready.”  
        “Let me show you.”  
        Will blushed. “Oh...okay.”  
        Hannibal smiled. He found Will’s self-effacing demeanor incredibly charming, and hoped he would never lose it.  
        Hannibal set up a chair in front of the bathroom mirror so Will could watch. The lesson was largely non-verbal. Hannibal acquainted him with the sharpening stone and the strop, a hot towel, foam from the cup of soap, and the caress of the boar’s hair brush. The motion of the blade itself was the only thing the doctor commented on. “Against the grain. Never lengthwise.”  
        The week-and-a-half of beard was soon gone. Hannibal retrieved a bottle from the medicine cabinet and unscrewed the cap. “I said I would introduce you to a better aftershave. What do you think?”  
        Will inhaled. It reminded him somewhat of the stuff he used to wear, except cleaner and more subtle. “It’s good. What is it?”  
        “Sandalwood and cedar. Woodsy, sweet, with an undercurrent of heat. Reminded me of you.”  
        He rubbed a small amount between his palms and held Will’s face far longer than was necessary for the application of aftershave. His gaze eventually drifted up to the unruly mop of hair. Will said, “You can cut it if you want. Please, not too short. My dad used to buzz it twice a year for school.”  
        Hannibal got out scissors and a comb while Will wet his hair. As Hannibal was toweling it, he asked, “Despite being a barbarous barber, was your father kind?”  
        “He was patient. A good teacher. Honest. Dutiful.”  
        “Do you think he understood you?”  
        “He was a loner...so, yeah, in a way he did. He was content to avoid people. I had...trouble making friends, but I wanted them.”  
        The doctor combed Will’s hair and began to cut, drawing out one section at a time between his index and middle fingers. The feeling of his hair being gently pulled caused a cascade of pleasure down Will’s spine. Hannibal said, “The first time we met, you barely made eye contact. You said it’s because you see too many details. I think you mimic the signs of autism in order to protect yourself. The truth is far more unusual.”  
        Will met Hannibal’s eyes in the mirror with an unblinking stare. Hannibal took the hint and said, “You also defy diagnosis.”  
        Will dropped his gaze. Hannibal combed his hair down in front of his eyes and began to snip some of the length away. Will said, “My mother was – _is_ , I don’t know– a coke addict and an alcoholic. I don’t remember her at all, but that’s what my dad told me.”  
        The snipping stopped for a moment, then resumed. “I’m very sorry to hear that. When did your father tell you?”  
        “When I was a kid, but of course he didn’t tell me that. He said something like she was sick, physically. Too sick to take care of me, and it wasn’t my fault. As I got older and wanted more information he elaborated as was appropriate. He told me she struggled with depression. I understood her more as I found myself self-medicating.”  
        “What pain were you trying to numb?”  
        “Loneliness and its cure, human contact. And later, to take the edge off the things I’d seen. Minds I’d inhabited.”  
        “You chose quite a disturbing career path for someone so sensitive.”  
        Will smiled. “Yeah, if I hadn’t become a cop, I could’ve fixed a lot of boat engines. Opened an animal shelter.”  
        “Your brilliant imagination and your empathetic gift, gone to the dogs.”  
        “ _Hey_ , dogs deserve empathy, too. Do you like them?”  
        Will asked it casually, but Hannibal knew that his answer was very important. “If they’re well-behaved.”  
        Will released a breath he had not realized he was holding. “Well, that’s all about training.”  
        “You miss your pack.”  
        “I really do.”  
        The scissors snipped a few more times, then Hannibal put them aside and checked the symmetry of the cut. “Not so long from now we will choose a place together. Somewhere very much like here, built on more solid ground. With room for us and four-legged family.”  
        Will’s eyes widened. He had imagined that Dr. Lecter would want to live in a grand apartment similar to what he had shared with Bedelia. Will had been nervous about that. Although he did not mind visiting the city, the countryside offered the serenity he desperately needed. Will’s inner voice spoke, no longer in Hannibal’s voice, _You’ve given him everything he wants. He’s trying to do the same for you_.  
        Hannibal stepped aside to show Will the haircut. Will blinked a few times. He looked surprisingly like himself…a healthier version, with an unfamiliar hint of style. Hannibal had left the bangs rather long so Will could cover the scar if he wanted; everything else had been neatly trimmed and shaped. “Just a refinement, not a makeover,” said Hannibal, removing the towel from Will’s shoulders. He added, “Now is as good a time as any for your passport photo.”  
        Will found himself smiling as he followed the doctor down the hall, and the smile persisted into their photo session. Hannibal transferred the photograph to a thumb drive and put it into a thick mailing envelope with a considerable amount of cash and one of his spare passports, explaining, “Instead of acquiring an entirely new identity, I’ll have the forger exchange your image with one of my alternates. If that’s all right with you.”  
        “You trust this person?”  
        “They’ve done work for me before. Excellent quality and prompt turnaround.”  
        “Okay.”  
        Hannibal penned a brief note, put it in the envelope and sealed it.  Will noticed that the return address was a post office box about fifty miles north of their location.  He chewed on his bottom lip. Hannibal noticed. “I see your concern. It’s always a risk to trust someone. We’ll make a plan.”  
        They talked it over during the drive to a mailbox. By the time they returned, Will’s mind was settled.  
        


	9. eating oranges and making fake IDs

  
        Alana Bloom browsed the responses to the message she had posted on the Tor network.  There were dozens of individuals and collectives eager to be hired, considering the sum she was willing to part with, but none who could offer her proof that Hannibal Lecter had been found.  Many of them advertised as assassins.  Alana preferred the idea of kidnapping to cold-blooded murder.  Her post specified that payment for retrieving Will Graham would be made only if he were alive and unharmed.  Hannibal could be returned in any condition, but a five-hundred-thousand dollar bonus was offered if both were delivered alive.  She was sure that they were together.  
        Though Alana hoped that the reward would prompt the criminal world to flush out her quarry, she had not given up her own attempts to find them.  A week after the escape Jack had told her that the car found at the airport was a dead end.  Despite Margot’s objections, Alana had flown to D.C. to look through Dr. Lecter’s personal effects again, specifically focusing on the receipts, hoping for another lead like the one she had gotten through the gourmet shop in Florence.  If there was one thing that was constant about Hannibal, it was his good taste.  He had escaped in a jumpsuit and would definitely want his usual clothing.  Alana searched specifically for receipts from overseas clothiers, the kinds of places that made his incredible suits, where a gentleman could get tailored split-collar shirts or a particularly magnificent necktie.  
        Alana could not deny that Hannibal had seduced and shaped her in more ways than one.  Whether the choice was subconscious or not, she recognized that she had Hannibalized her wardrobe after the fall from his upper-story window.  The change was more than superficial.  She had, after all, gone on to commit her first murder, and was now contemplating her next.  If not for Will she would have put a straight-forward hit out on the doctor.  
        Will was a troubling paradox for Alana.  She often thought about how she could have stopped what was happening before it had gotten so bad, while at the same time she acknowledged that on some level Will needed what Hannibal had to offer and had needed it all along.  Alana accepted this, yet still wanted to save him.  The most compelling rationalization she could come up with was that Hannibal had brainwashed Will into being his companion.  This is the idea she focused on whenever she felt her convictions wavering.  
        After the first week of checking up on receipts that yielded nothing, after a particularly long night in which she woke repeatedly from nightmares of being served slices of her son, she used her personal laptop to access the Tor network and make the post.  It would have been better to go through legal channels, but she found that she placed more trust in criminals to get the job done.  If the FBI could not get a break in the case at least she felt she was doing something, drastic as it might be, to ensure the safety of her family.  
        Alana closed her laptop for now, took a sip of coffee, and returned to the small pile of receipts.  She dialed the number for an Italian tailor —the fourth she had tried in a group of five— who she had been trying to get in touch with for a few days.  There was no answer and no answering machine.  
      
        The forger opened the envelope in the back room of his apartment and whistled.  He looked at the passport closely, admiring his own work, already thinking about what he needed to do to replace the photo with the one of the other man who had been so much in the news lately.  He had done work for people far more destructive than Hannibal Lecter, yet felt honored to be trusted by someone with such a high profile.  
        He peeled himself an orange, ate a slice, and then set to work.  He had just finished laminating the new passport when his doorbell rang.  The forger got up, closing the door to his workroom behind him.  He saw his brother through the peephole and sighed.  “What do you want?”  
        “I came by to wish you a happy birthday.”  
        “You said it.  Anything else?”  
        “C’mon, Angelo, let me in.  I’ve got something for you.”  
        The forger opened the door, leaving the chain on.  “What is it?”  
        “I can’t fit it through there, open up.”  
        The door closed, then opened wide.  “What is it, Christopher?”  
        Christopher pushed a large square green box into his brother’s chest.  “You like this stuff, right?”  
        “Patrón?  Yeah, who doesn’t.  Thanks.”  
        “I didn’t wrap it.”  
        “I can see that.”  
        “Wanna have a drink with me?”  
        Angelo smirked.  “Fine.  Sit down.  What’s going on?”  
        Christopher sat down heavily on the couch and shrugged.  “Nothing.”  
        “You’re high.  Something’s going on,” said the forger, setting down two glasses that Christopher did not hesitate to fill.  
        They drank.  Christopher said, “So maybe I went to talk to some people to see what was going on.  If maybe they had a job for me.”  
        “You’ve been out for _three weeks_.  If you violate parole-”      
        “I won’t, I won’t…don’t worry.”  
        “Fuck, Christopher.  You have to stay away from this shit.”  
        “I can’t…I still owe someone.”  
        “Now we’ve arrived at the reason you’re here.”  
        “Excuse me?”  
        “You came to ask to borrow some money.  Well, listen, I can’t give it to you.  I’m not trying to be a dick.  You just can’t keep doing this to me.”  
        “He’s gonna kill me.”  
        Angelo sighed again, deeper this time.  “How much do you owe?”  
        “A lot.”  
        “Can you please be more specific?”  
        “About…uh, around two hundred grand.”  
        Angelo let out a laugh.  “How is that even fucking possible?  Actually, don’t answer.”  
        Christopher hung his head.  “I swear, if you do me this favor I’ll make it up to you.”  
        “What are you even asking me for?  I don’t have two hundred grand.”  
        “Well…uh, what _do_ you have?”  
        “You want me to clean out my bank account for you again?  I’m not doing it.”  
        “Just…give me something, man.  Anything.”  
        “What I can give you is five grand.”  
        “That’s not gonna be enough.”  
        “You _just_ said _anything_.”  
        “I know you have more than that.”  
         Angelo pointed to the door.  “Go. Leave. _Now_!”  
        Christopher stood up.  He had a significant height advantage.  He walked slowly towards the door, then turned and ran down the hallway into the back room, throwing the door open and slamming it behind him, nearly smashing Angelo’s hand in the process.  “Get the fuck out!” Angelo yelled, wrenching the door open to see his brother pocketing the fifteen thousand dollars that he had just received in the mail.  
        “I swear I’ll pay you back,” said Christopher, eyes wild with desperation.  
        The brothers stared at each other for a long moment, the phrase ‘don’t look down’ repeating on loop in Angelo’s mind.  Christopher looked down at the passport and the excised photo beside it.  “Holy shit.  Holy _shit_!”  
         “Shut up and get out!”  
         “You’ve got three million dollars sitting here and you weren’t gonna mention it.”  
        Angelo closed his eyes and winced.  His brother was not particularly bright by any means, but apparently smart enough to browse for jobs on the Tor network.  “I have principles, Christopher.”  
        “ _Principles_? You think you’re better than me?”  
        “You got what you came for, now get the fuck out.”  
        Christopher kept staring at the picture of Dr. Lecter.  He grabbed the envelope and flipped it over, reading the return address.  “Maine, huh?”  
        Angelo lunged at him.  They grappled briefly, but Christopher was much stronger and soon got Angelo in a hold he could not escape.  “Let go!”  
        “I will if you calm down.  Man, this is good…this is a great turn of events.”  
        “No, it’s _not_.  The bounty is so high because Lecter is extremely dangerous.”  
        “This is going to be the end of all my problems.”  
        “If Lecter kills you, then yeah, technically you’re right.”  
        Christopher laughed.  “Nah, it’s going to work.  You mail the passport and give me the tracking number so I know when it arrives.  I’ll wait for him at the post office and follow him…get them both.”  
        “You’ve never kidnapped anyone before.”  
        “How hard can it be?”  
        “I don’t know!  That’s my point!”  
        “Are you going to help me?”  
        “Let.  Go.”  
        Christopher released his hold.  Angelo said, “I’ll mail the passport, but beyond that, I’m done.”  
        His brother nodded.  Angelo was not really a man of action; he did not even own a gun.  Bringing him along was a dubious idea at best.  “That’s cool.  I have a friend who’ll be into this for sure.”  
        “He’d better be the scariest motherfucker you know.”  
        Christopher nodded enthusiastically.  “Thanks, Angelo, I really owe you one.”  
        “Please don’t do this.”  
        “I’ll give you a cut for providing me with this opportunity.  How about ten percent?”  
        Angelo abruptly found himself hoping that Lecter would take his sweet time as he devoured Christopher piece by piece.  “Fifteen,” he said icily.  
        After his brother had finally left, Angelo thought about calling his parole officer and mentioning any one of the many infractions Christopher had incurred over the course of the last three weeks.  A blood test was all it would take to get him sent back to prison.  He would be safe there, unless the guy he owed money finally got fed up and had him killed.  He would at least be safe from cannibalistic serial killers.  More importantly, Angelo’s loyalty to his client —something on which he prided himself— would remain intact.  Yet for some reason Angelo could not get himself to pick up the phone.  Maybe he wanted to believe that Christopher could pull it off.  Or maybe he was finally ready to let his brother destroy himself.    
        He put the passport in an envelope and mailed it.  He sent the tracking number to his brother and to Dr. Lecter, then called his landlord and let her know that he was moving.  
   


	10. Preludes and Fugues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, 
> 
> Thanks for reading/commenting/kudosing! 
> 
> Love, KFC.

        “I swear he can see us,” said Christopher.  
        “Stop looking,” said the man seated across from him in the restaurant booth.  
        Christopher stared hard at his coffee cup for all of ten seconds before glancing out the window at the black sedan parked across the street in front of the post office.  The passenger side was facing them and Hannibal Lecter was seated inside.  The doctor was looking straight ahead through the windshield but Christopher felt his eyes on him, somehow.  “How do the photos look, Sergei? They need to be clear to get the money.”  
        “You need to relax.  No more caffeine.”  
        The camera was resting casually on the table, zoom lens facing the window.  Both men were wearing hats that read MAINE in an attempt to blend in as tourists.  This small coastal town was an obscure place to stop for lunch, especially in the winter, but at least it had a few businesses to provide cover.  
        Will Graham stepped out of the post office.  Sergei remained motionless except for his finger on the shutter release.  One push of the button took a series of photos as Will approached the car and got into the driver’s seat.  The kidnappers had already paid their check, so they left and got into their SUV.  Sergei handed the camera to Christopher, who took out the card and put it into a slot in his laptop.  Sergei pulled onto the road some distance behind the sedan.  Christopher said, “Don’t lose them!”  
        Sergei gritted his teeth slightly.  “I got this.  Just focus on sending the photo.”  
        “You remembered to disable Geotagging, right?”  
        “Yes.  I did.”  
        Christopher chose a photo with a straight-on view of Will’s face, and sent it to his client.  
      
        Alana Bloom was keenly aware of her heartbeat as she opened the message attachment.  She did not know what to expect, but was immediately struck by the thought that Will looked happy and healthy.  The time and date information were compelling evidence that the photo was legitimate, but all doubt was erased when she saw Will’s new scar.  Alana wired a one-hundred-thousand dollar deposit to the bank account provided, then sat back and tried to calm her speeding heart.       
  
        Will parked the car in the gravel driveway and immediately drew his gun, eyes on the rear view mirror.  The SUV that had been following them rolled by and proceeded down the road.  “Hannibal, am I being paranoid?”  
        “No.  You were right to be suspicious of the forger.”  
        “Law enforcement wouldn’t keep driving.  They wouldn’t give us any chance to escape.  These guys are hunting us.  They’ll wait for dark.”  
        “That gives us time to make side dishes for tonight’s dinner.”  
        Will burst out laughing.  He looked over at Hannibal, his nervousness dispelled by the doctor’s playful smile and aura of self-assurance.  They went inside.  Hannibal turned on a tablet and set it up on the corner of the kitchen counter.  He brought up the security camera feed, which gave a high resolution view from the house in every direction.  “Do you enjoy cooking?” he asked as he set out a cutting board and began to pull ingredients from the refrigerator and cupboards.  
        “I’m pretty good with fish, but nothing fancy.  I don’t _dislike_ it, I guess I never thought about it much before-”  
        Hannibal waited for Will to continue.  When he did not, Hannibal offered, “Before our paths crossed?”  
        “Well, yeah.  But also, I used to make lunch for Walter to take to school.  And dinner on the weekends.  My…family had simple taste.”  
        “How do you feel about them?”  
        “Shame.”  
        “You think you disgraced them?”  
        “No.  Shame because I thought of you all the time.  I couldn’t give them what they deserved and they couldn’t give me what I needed.”  
        “Even though you may feel you had no choice, I’m very glad you came to me.”  
        Hannibal plucked a leaf of rosemary from a sprig, pushed it between Will’s lips, and said, “I would love it if you would cook with me.”  
        “I’d need remedial lessons.  Besides, I’d just get in your way.”  
        In response, Hannibal turned the shorter man to face the counter and pinned him there with his body.  Hannibal rested his chin momentarily on Will’s shoulder and said, “You are never in my way.”  
        He put his hand over Will’s and positioned it on the knife, the blade held between the index finger and thumb, and guided him through the motion of a perfect chop.  They cut several baby potatoes in half in such a manner, Hannibal gradually reducing the amount of control he was exerting until Will could do it perfectly by himself.  Will found the pressure of being squeezed against the counter very comforting, and felt almost bereft when Hannibal moved away.  When all of the potatoes had been cut up, Hannibal returned with a few sprigs of rosemary.  He showed Will how to pull the needles off the stem and finely chop the herb.  “Coat the potatoes in a tablespoon of olive oil with the rosemary, season with a little bit of salt and pepper, put them on a baking sheet and bake until tender.”  
        “That’s it?”  
        “That’s it.  Good cooking need not be elaborate.  Precision and technique matter, but fresh ingredients are the most important factor.”  
        As the potatoes were roasting, Hannibal measured flour into a bowl and cut butter into pieces.  He guided Will’s hands into the bowl and told him to rub the butter into the flour until it formed crumbs.  He sprinkled ice water into the mixture as Will continued to knead it until it formed dough.  “What’s this going to be?”  
        “A pastry crust for our pear _tarte tatin_.  Wrap that in plastic and put it in the refrigerator, please.”  
        After Will washed his hands, Hannibal handed him a vegetable peeler.  They removed the skins from several pears, the doctor using a paring knife with startling speed.  Will stared a little, feeling clumsy by comparison.  Hannibal caught his look and said, “The peeler is better, less wasteful, but I only have one.”  
        They cored the pears, cut them in half and then in lengthwise slices, and set them aside in a bowl of sugar and lemon juice.  Next, Hannibal melted butter in a skillet and stirred in sugar until it caramelized.  He removed the skillet from the heat and they took turns placing the pear slices round-side down in a fanned formation, the pointed ends towards the center.  The pastry dough was rolled out and put on top, and the tarte went into the oven as the potatoes came out. Hannibal poured them each a glass of wine.  The sun was setting; the ocean was touched with the fire of winter light.  The tablet beeped.  The video feed showed a deer foraging for twigs and buds in a nearby stand of trees.  
        When the tarte was done Hannibal placed a serving platter over the skillet and quickly inverted it to reveal the finished dessert.  Will was surprised; though he was accustomed to the artistry of Hannibal’s dishes he had assumed that his own participation would corrupt the intended effect.  “Perfect,” said Hannibal, enjoying Will’s pleased expression.  
        Hannibal covered the food and set it aside.  The sky had grown dark; the security cameras switched to night-vision.  Hannibal put the tablet on top of the piano and proceeded to play The Well Tempered Clavier Book 1.  Will lay down to listen.  Hannibal played for over two hours, grateful as ever for his companion’s capacity for sustained attention and appreciation for music.  The fact that Will was untrained in the arts did not bother the doctor in the slightest.  Will was naturally creative, and Hannibal wondered what sort of paintings he would make, what startling poetry he could put to paper.  Hannibal smiled dreamily as he played the final melancholic notes of the B minor fugue.  He poured them both another glass of wine and joined Will on the couch.  
  
        The kidnappers waited until the lights in the house had been out for an hour before they began their approach on foot.  The tablet sounded an alert when they were within thirty meters.  Hannibal and Will saw that the two men were wearing riot control gas masks.  Hannibal took Will’s hand, leading him quickly to the bedroom.  He opened his closet and pulled out two gas masks.  Will said, “You think of everything.”  
        “I like to be prepared.”  
        “You don’t strike me as a Boy Scout.”  
        Hannibal smirked, took off his tie, and put on his mask.  He took a small folding knife from a box on a shelf in his closet, opened it to expose a curved blade.  Will supposed that was all Hannibal needed.  Even after the fight with Dolarhyde he still felt safer with his Sig Sauer, which he drew and held by his side as he followed Hannibal back towards the living room.  
        The kidnappers had discovered the large sheet of plastic covering the missing window.  One of them cut a slit in the sheet and launched a canister inside.  As the white vapor billowed aggressively through the house, Hannibal slowly approached the window as the kidnapper’s blade cut a hole large enough to step through.  
        Watching Hannibal stalk silently across the darkened room, all lithe predatory grace, Will felt heat erupt at the base of his spine and blaze upwards, licking the roof of his skull where it focused into searing points that pressed hard to escape their bony confines.  The antlers erupted, extruding and hardening into vicious spikes as a paroxysm of desire overtook him.  His vision shimmering as if he were looking through a wall of heat, he saw Hannibal slide onto his belly along the wall next to the window, and as the first man stepped into the house the curved blade flashed out and stabbed deeply into the back of his knee, severing the artery.  As the man fell he swung his gun in Hannibal’s direction, firing off a tranquilizer dart that hit the wall with a dull thunk as the doctor grabbed his wrist and twisted it.  Hannibal slid the blade under the lip of the kidnapper’s mask and neatly dissected his throat, the blood gushing like a spring, pooling out over the floor.  
        A flashlight aimed down at the lurid scene, spotlighting it for a moment.  Christopher took in the sight of the scariest motherfucker he knew, dispatched in less than five seconds.  He turned and ran.  Will tore after him.  They rounded the house, the kidnapper sprinting flat-out for the car parked a half mile down the road.  Struggling for breath, Christopher flung off his mask and turned to see Will gaining on him.  Christopher suddenly realized that he was not going to make it to the car, so he turned towards the woods.  Will ripped off his own mask and followed.  Christopher wanted to use his tranquilizer gun but knew he was a terrible shot; shooting while running would waste any chance he had of hitting his target.  He made it to the trees and zigzagged, desperate to lose his pursuer.  The woods were nearly pitch-black; though the trees were bare the moon was no more than a curved sliver and the sky was overcast.  Will was following mostly by sound.  Christopher ducked behind a large tree and tried to control his ragged breathing.  Will immediately stopped and listened.  Soon he heard very soft deliberate footfalls to his left.  He began to move towards the sound, timing his own steps to match.  He gradually gained on his prey.  His eyes could not be trusted, the darkness swarmed with unintelligible visions, but he was sure that the man was only a few feet in front of him.  Will raised his gun, lowered it slightly, raised it again.  “Hannibal.”  
        The man he was following darted forward, scrambling to put distance between them.  Will tucked his gun into the back of his trousers as he pursued.  Feeling unstoppable, he closed the distance in a few strides and leapt onto the man’s back, clamping an arm around his throat.  The kidnapper stumbled sideways and Will felt the muzzle of the tranquilizer gun poking his arm, the kidnapper hesitating out of fear of shooting himself.  With his free hand Will grabbed the gun, dropping his entire body weight onto the kidnapper’s arm.  The abrupt shift in balance brought them both to the ground.  Will got his finger on the trigger and shot all of the darts into the woods.  The kidnapper wrenched the gun out of his grip and pistol-whipped him across the face.  Christopher rose and ran directly into Hannibal, who slammed him to the ground and pinned him there.  “Will.”  
        Breathing through the pain, Will got up onto all fours, crawled forward, and sank his teeth into the kidnapper’s throat.  He could feel the man’s scream as he bit down.  He was not sure it was possible to get all the way through, yet he did not give up.  The flesh yielded; his teeth touched.  
        He sat back on his heels, drawing in deep breaths and wiping the wide rivulets of blood from his chin, then began tearing at his own clothes, their presence against his skin —between his skin and Hannibal’s— suddenly intolerable.  He ripped off Hannibal’s shirt with the same abandon.  Shaking with lust, he fumbled at the doctor’s belt.  Hannibal tried to help, but Will pushed his hands aside and continued to undress him.  Hannibal lay back and let Will take control.  
        Will had learned a lot in the past couple of weeks, and treated the other man with the same tenderness he had been shown, preparing him slowly and carefully despite his aching need.  When he finally slid their bodies together he knew he had done all right as Hannibal rewarded him with a soft moan.  Will was still shaking; senses overloaded, he felt on the brink of madness.  “Don’t hold back,” breathed Hannibal.  
        Will whimpered, dropped his head so their foreheads were touching, locking antlers as he let the fire in his spine consume him completely.    
   


	11. Interlude

        Hannibal had left by the front door and it was standing wide open when they returned to the house.  The cross breeze from the missing window had cleared away the tear gas; Hannibal gave the air a sniff to make sure.  Feeling no irritation, he stepped into the foyer and turned on the lights.  Will said, “Tear gas can leave residue.  We should throw away anything porous and wipe down everything else.”  
        Hannibal turned towards him, his contented expression suddenly replaced by a cold glare.  Startled, Will stammered, “Did I…h-have I-”  
        “You’ve done nothing wrong.  He hit you, your scar reopened.”  
        Will reached up to feel his face.  Hannibal stopped his hand and led him down the hallway.  Will had had the foresight to close the bedroom door behind them after they got the gas masks, so the room had not been contaminated.  Hannibal got the medical bag, washed his hands and Will’s face, and repeated the suturing procedure even more meticulously than the first time.  The skin was bruised and swelling, and as soon as the stitches were in place the doctor got a bag of ice.  He held it gingerly to Will’s cheek, the gentleness of his hands at odds with his furious look.  Will swallowed hard.  His body was tensed into a defensive posture and he was staring at the floor.  Hannibal saw all of this; he knew he was responsible for Will’s unease but could not suppress his emotions.  “He also chipped your tooth.”  
        “I’m not a teacup.”  
        Sitting on the bed with his knees drawn to his chest, spattered with blood, twigs tangled in his sweat-matted hair, Will looked like a wild creature.  They locked eyes and Hannibal felt as if he were being consumed from the inside out by the preternatural man with whom he was sharing himself.  He reminded himself that this was all right, that he was willing because it was Will.  He refocused on the beauty of the evening, which was by far the best of his life.  
        Expression softening as he recalled the first sweet notes of the C Major Prelude of The Well Tempered Clavier, as he remembered the feeling of pressing Will against the kitchen counter, the thrill of power as he moved him —so tempting to twist and bend this object of worship that could wound him, both of them vulnerable and strong— as he replayed what had happened in the woods, a rare flush spreading down his neck and chest, Hannibal said, “You’re quite right.  I’m going for a walk.  Care to join me?”  
        Will nodded.  Hannibal found the SUV keys in Sergei’s pocket.  They walked to the car and drove it to the edge of the forest.  They loaded their cargo and brought it home.  Hannibal immediately returned to the bedroom where he opened the kidnappers’ laptop, the browser displaying the website where the bounty was posted.  They read the conditions of the reward.  Email correspondence was left open in another window.  “Is it true that this is untraceable?” asked Hannibal.  
        “If they used an anonymous email service with Tor, which it looks like they did.  It says there’s a new message.”  
        The email was brief:  “Send proof of capture and I will provide drop off location.”  
        “Wonder where Alana and Margot want us delivered,” said Hannibal.  
        Will knew it was them, but hearing it spoken made it into a fact that needed to be faced.  “They won’t take the chance of letting us get too close.”  
        “Margot may not share her late brother’s predilection for torture, but she is capable of murder.”  
        “They want us alive.”  
        “Alana wants _you_ alive.”  
        “She’s willing to pay half a million extra for you alive.  She wants to bring you to justice.”  
        “If I were captured again, where would they keep me?”  
        “At this point…supermax.”  
        Hannibal was quiet.  Will knew he would rather die than be put in a place like that.  Will said, “The bounty has to be removed.  I’m going to try to talk her out of it.”  
        Will clicked _Reply_ and began to type.  Hannibal said, “I’ll give you some privacy,” and left the room.  
        Cleaning the house was a monumental chore.  He started with the kitchen so they might eat dinner sooner rather than later.  Once the room had been wiped down he began to work on the main course.  He did his butchering in the garage, missing his basement back in Baltimore.  After the filets were seared and finished in the oven, he turned his attention to cleaning the dining area.  Places set, he returned to the bedroom. Will looked up from the computer and asked,  “Do you want to read it before I send it?”  
        Hannibal thought about it for a moment, and found that the desire for trust between them was stronger than his curiosity. “I defer to your judgment.”  
        Will clicked _Send_.  
        They took a lukewarm shower together, obeying Will’s warning against using hot water that could activate any tear gas stuck to their skin.  They dressed for dinner.  Will wore one of the more formal suits that Hannibal had procured for him, a dark blue with roped shoulders.  He combed his hair, wondering if the tender points he felt on his scalp were real or not.  The hallucinations had abated, but neither Hannibal nor his own reflection looked quite human. This did not frighten him anymore.  
        The meat was served with a pomegranate sauce that looked deliciously murderous.  Somewhat embarrassed by how euphoric he felt, Hannibal resisted opening a vintage bottle of Dom Pérignon in favor of a viognier. Yet as he was repeatedly drawn to Will’s ardent gaze —a brazen stare he would have considered rude coming from anyone else— he saw that his feelings were reciprocated; the champagne would have been understood.  Dr. Lecter consoled himself with the thought of many more nights like this, each with its own unique loveliness.  He then went on to further console himself by circling the table and removing Will’s beautiful suit, piece by piece.

 


	12. Femmes Damnées

        After a few hours of pacing her hotel room waiting for proof of capture, Alana needed a distraction.  She glanced at her watch.  Allowing for the time difference it was about four in the afternoon in Italy.  She dialed the number of the elusive tailor again, and nearly spit out her coffee in surprise when he answered on the ninth ring.  Alana’s Italian was not fluent but it was good enough to come to the understanding that although the tailor had shipped several orders to the United States within the last three weeks, none of the suits matched Hannibal’s measurements.  She took down the names and addresses of the clients anyway.    
        The day wore on with no further word from the kidnappers.  For dinner Alana ordered room service and made herself a drink from the minibar.  She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes, trying to imagine the sort of people that were stalking Hannibal and Will, and wondering if they were up to the task.  Brute force would not be enough. To capture Hannibal would require skill, intelligence, and a lot of luck.  Alana felt lucky most of the time, and in many ways she had Hannibal to thank for that.  She would never forget what he had said to her through the glass wall of his cage.  _You died in my kitchen when you chose to be brave.  Every moment since is borrowed.  Your wife, your child, they belong to me.  You made a bargain for Will’s life, and then I spun you gold._  
        Alana had come to enjoy her life immensely, even if she was living on borrowed time.  The threat of death made her appreciate what she had even more keenly and granted her the boldness to take action.  The bounty had worked before and it could work again. Hannibal would be locked away and Will would be managed, hopefully with the help of his family, if he were capable of returning to them.  She felt a pang for Will, a protective urge that the years had not dulled despite all that had happened.  She pictured him, how open his expression was when he didn’t think to guard it, lost in his own world.  Had it ever been a happy one?  
        Alana bolted awake, fully dressed on top of the bed covers. She immediately reached for her computer, horrified to see that she had been asleep for hours. She opened the new message that was waiting for her.  
  
         _Dear Alana and Margot,_  
_I’m sorry to tell you the guys who came to get us failed._  
_Alana, I want you to know how much I appreciate your help, even back when I was teaching and you warned me about being ambushed by Jack. Time and again you stood up for me when I couldn’t. I thank you for your belief in my morality, for the dissonance you felt when I tried to have Hannibal killed after I presumably regained my right mind at the hospital. You believe in a person who still exists but who has changed. I don’t want to be saved. I’m not coming back. I hope Molly applies for a divorce._  
_At this point Hannibal and I are inextricable. I am ready to lay down my life to prevent him being hurt or captured. If you still care for my safety please realize you are putting me in danger. Yes, more danger than just being with Hannibal.  I have more power over him than you might imagine. I’m your best protection against him. Soon after the escape he promised me that he will leave your family alone. You know he honors his promises but the bounty is a threat on his life and freedom and I can’t stop him from acting in his own defense. But if you call it off I promise I can keep him away from you. It’s within your power to spare us all further pain._  
_-Will_  
          
            Alana read it a few times, disappointed that the attempt had failed but oddly engaged by the contents of the letter.  Even though the language was somewhat unlike the way Will spoke in person she had no doubt that it was written by him; Hannibal would have used better grammar and punctuation.  She waited until she felt completely calm, then crafted her reply.  
  
            Will dreamt of a pomegranate in the hands of his lover, full of red elixir, cracked apart and decanted into a goblet, brought again and again to the heat and wet of a mouth. He awoke in a fine sheen of sweat, eager to be possessed and to possess, rapturous to be drained but the cup never seemed to run dry, though Hannibal certainly tried.  
            Any semblance of morning routine was forgotten.  Hannibal eventually served Will breakfast in bed: a slice of the pear tarte along with an extremely good cup of coffee.  Nobody had ever done that for Will before.  It made him blush, which made Hannibal smile.    
            Will hated to break the mood, but he finally gave in and checked his email.  “There's a reply.”  
            Hannibal got up and walked to the doorway. “Will the sound of the harpsichord distract you?”  
            “No, not at all.”  
            The doctor, feeling inspired, went to work on his composition.  Will was a bit surprised at how unfazed Hannibal seemed about the situation, and how he was intentionally keeping out of it.  He supposed he would be happy if he got to kill Alana after all.  The whole family, if he really got his way.  Maybe he hoped Will would write the wrong thing.  Will frowned at this sudden paranoid thought.  He shook his head to dispel it and read:  
      
             _Dear Will,_  
_It’s very good to hear from you. I do still value your safety and I’m relieved to know that you’re well. You must understand that my motivation is both to help you and to bring Hannibal to justice, not only to keep my family safe but also to prevent his future crimes, of which I’m certain there will be many._  
_I can’t consider what you’re asking without knowing your answers to the following questions:_  
_Is Hannibal reading these emails?_  
_What is the power you have over him?_  
_Why are you willing to die for him?_  
_What happened with Dolarhyde?_  
_Is there any time you can’t account for?_  
_Do you agree with his standards of who makes an acceptable victim?_  
_How do you feel about being a killer?_  
  
_Your friend,_  
_Alana_  
          
            Will’s eyes lingered on the phrase ‘can’t consider what you’re asking without knowing your answers,’ the inference being that she _could_ consider it with more information.  Though confessing to certain crimes via an anonymous email client made for some pretty flimsy evidence, he had to be careful not to give away any clues to their location or plans.  He noticed that she had not asked outright for information like that, so part of her agenda was just to foster communication.  He felt confident that he could satisfy her questions without giving up anything that could hurt them.  
          
             _Dear Alana,_  
_I haven’t experienced any lost time. I’ve been watchful for manipulation. Hannibal said he doesn’t intend to do anything that infringes on my autonomy. Whether he can resist his need for control remains to be seen, but so far he hasn’t given me any reason not to trust him. He knows I’m writing to you but is not reading these emails._  
_Hannibal and I killed Dolarhyde. The truth is I enjoy killing people who deserve it. I think maybe you and Margot can relate to that. I don’t think any of us really want Hannibal to die. Of course I have come to the conclusion that he shouldn’t be incarcerated either, but that is because he is necessary to me. I won’t be without him. I am in love with him. He is in love with me. That’s the power I have over him and why I’m willing to die for him._  
_In the past he has killed on a whim and I don’t approve of that. You probably don’t believe he is capable of change but I know I have changed him and so does he. He feels compassion for me…a trait hard to accept within the accepted profile of a psychopath. But we know he’s no typical psychopath so maybe it’s not that surprising he’s capable of selective empathy. Do you think there’s anyone else in the world who can understand him like I can? And accept him? Give him the companionship he craves? He wants to keep me. This will influence his behavior. He will always have his appetite but merged with mine, the world will be better off without those we choose._  
_Let us go and you’ll never hear from us again._  
  
_Also your friend,_  
_Will_  
  
          
            Alana read the reply and called her wife.  “H-hello?” came a sleepy voice, and Alana realized with a wince that it was only 6 am in California.  
            “I’m sorry I woke you.”  
            “No, it’s okay. The little guy is still asleep, for once.  What’s going on?”  
            Alana read the emails to her, then added, “It’s good that he’s talking to me.  If I keep him talking maybe he’ll let something slip.”  
            There was a momentary silence.  “Will is bi?”  
            “Uh…I think he’s Hannibalsexual.”  
            “Wow.”  
            “Yeah.”  
            “So, when are you coming back to us?”  
            “I’m…I’m helping the investigation.  I need to be here.”  
            There was a pause. “When I suggested this I didn’t think you would get so obsessed.”  
            “Obsessed?  I’m trying to protect us.  If Hannibal isn’t caught we can never go home.”  
            “I don’t want to go home.”  
            “What?”  
            “Being away from Muskrat, even for these couple of weeks…I feel much better.  I know you want me to face my fears, un-trigger the triggers and all that, but there are so many bad memories there.  Good ones, too.  But mostly it’s stuff I’d rather just leave in the past.  I don’t want to go back.”  
            “You think I should call off the bounty?”  
            “Well, think about it…Hannibal made us both promises and followed through on them. We accepted his _help_ , Alana, and we _freed_ him.”  
            “That was a long time ago.”  
            “Yeah, but listen.  Will is definitely more trustworthy than Hannibal, don’t you agree?”  
            “Yeah.”  
            “So, if he promises he can keep Hannibal away from us, I think we should trust him.”  
            “Hannibal said we belong to him.”  
            “Maybe we do.  But apparently he belongs to Will.”  
            “You want me to call it off.  This was your idea.”  
            “I know.  I changed my mind.  Come out here, let’s buy a house.  Hire the best security in the world it you want.”  
            Alana sighed.  “Okay. I'll get the next flight out.”  
          
            As the plane was taxiing to the runway, Alana found herself wondering what it was like to be loved, truly loved, by Hannibal Lecter.  She was sure he had once had some sort of affection for her, but it was never love.  She imagined it would be glorious and terrifying to hold that power over him.  She began to daydream about the things that a man of such taste would procure for the one he loved, what rare wines, what gastronomic delights, what elegant clothing-  
             _Suits_ , she thought.  He would definitely want to see Will in some finely tailored suits.  Alana’s face felt suddenly hot.  It would not be too much trouble to call back the Italian tailors and inquire about a different set of measurements, which could be estimated from the clothes Will had left behind.  She did not even have to do it herself.  She could just pass the information on to Jack Crawford.  She stealthily got out her laptop, wary of being scolded by the flight attendants.  She intended to email Jack but found herself replying to Will’s email instead. She typed _“Are you happy?”_ and hit Send.      
            The reply was swift. _“Very. Maybe for the first time.”_  
            Alana was not exactly sure why that was the deciding factor, but somehow she could no longer entertain the thought of sharing her insight with Jack. She deleted the bounty and sent another message, _“It’s called off.  Do me a favor and stay in touch.”_  
            She put away the computer.  The idea lingered for a while, but only a little while.  The plane took her away from it, up into a cloudless sky.


	13. L'Homme Et La Mer

  
        Will, Hannibal, and Abigail set out across the ocean on the first of June, blessed by fair weather and a steady wind.  Being instructed by Will was a revelation for Hannibal.  The younger man was patient and kind teacher, but it was his confidence on the water that most impressed the doctor.  Sailing was something he was good at that did not cause him pain.    
        Being a novice made Hannibal uncomfortable, which is what he had anticipated and even welcomed as a sort of experiment.  Yet, save for a few moments of internal frustration when he struggled to master a task, he found an unfamiliar pleasure in looking to his skipper for guidance.     
        They fell into a simple routine.  They ate and drank well, and Hannibal often caught Will looking at him with an expression that seemed to ask: _do you feel the same peace that I feel_?  Hannibal felt something new, not quite peace, but wholesome camaraderie.  
        Hannibal did not like being below deck for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, but they kept a watch schedule at night, which meant that he had to sleep for a few hours at a time.  Will would descend with him and stay until the worst of the claustrophobia had passed.  This was embarrassing at first —the doctor felt like a frightened child being tucked into bed— but he endured it because it worked.  
        The bathroom was far from glamorous, but nothing could be worse than the bucket Alana had given him.  He was glad that the bounty had been called off, he was acquiescent to Will’s request to stay away from her, but he knew that he would not be able to resist an opportunity for revenge if it happened to present itself.  
        Halfway to the Azores they encountered heavy weather.  They sailed downwind, Will helming by hand for thirty six hours before finally switching with Hannibal.  Despite his protective gear and hot food and drink served at regular intervals, Will was shaking with cold brought on by exhaustion.  He clipped the doctor into the safety harness and said, “Take the wave at fifteen degrees.  I’ll be back in three hours.”  
        Hannibal wanted to argue with that, but respected the captain’s command.   The time went quickly; the ride was exhilarating. Two hours later the weather began to clear and Will returned in time for them to share the sunset.  Hannibal said, “We’re out of the storm, perhaps you should get more rest.”  
        Will shook his head.  “I checked our position, we’re in a shipping lane.  I’ll get us back on course.  Please go below deck and check everywhere I showed you, then get four hours of sleep.”  
        Hannibal hesitated so briefly that Will did not notice.  He felt close to mutiny; as the doctor of the ship it was within his power to take action.  Yet Will appeared alert, even slightly agitated, and Hannibal once again yielded to his greater experience.  
        It was a moonless night but the sky was clear and teeming with stars.  Will was glad to be out of the storm.  He had tried to sleep but was too anxious.  Maybe he should have told Hannibal that, but any sleeping pill the doctor would have given him would have made him groggy for hours.  He took a long drink of coffee and checked the heading again.  
        His attention was suddenly drawn to the sight of a figure climbing up out of the companionway onto the deck.  “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” he called playfully.  
        The figure came into view and Will saw that it was not Hannibal.  It was himself, dripping wet, the cut in his cheek raw and bleeding.  _Not this again_ , Will thought, averting his eyes from the hallucination.  The figure advanced.  It spoke, “You were caught in a net.”  
        Will ignored it.  It continued, “A net... _really_? If Chiyoh was there why didn’t she shoot Dolarhyde before he shot Hannibal?”  
        The figure began a slow lap around the deck.  When Will heard a gentle sloshing sound, he could not stop himself from looking.  The hallucination was wetting down the deck with gasoline.  “Why are you still here?” Will asked.  
        “Because you still want to save yourself.”  
        “No, I don’t.”  
        “Then why do you think I’m here?”  
        “Sleep deprivation.”  
        “Oh, give yourself more credit.  Look at the complex and indulgent delusion you’ve created for yourself.  Romantic, sailing away together.  Alana calling off the bounty, letting you go.  Hannibal on his best behavior.  It’s a little too good.”  
         The figure returned to the companionway and poured the last of the gasoline down the stairs, then walked to the gunwale and took a flare out of his pocket.  The hallucination said, “You have always been compelled towards the truth.  The truth is there was no net.  You fell.  You were hurt worse than he was.  He’s been keeping you drugged.  Rebuilding you into what he wants.  You’ve been allowing it.”  
        Hannibal came out of the companionway, glanced at the empty gas can, and to Will’s horror walked directly towards the hallucination.  Will said, “I’m over here.”  
        Hannibal addressed the vision as if it had spoken.  “Yes.  What are you doing?”  
        “You can’t see me?”  
        Hannibal gradually approached the other Will, the _wrong_ Will, who brandished the flare like a knife.  Hannibal said, “I can see you.”  
        What he saw broke his heart.  For a mad moment he thought to let Will ignite the flare and kill them both, rather than face life alone again.  His sense of self-preservation would not allow it, of course.  The ocean would be a fitting grave for his lover, his only friend.    
        Will tried to light the flare, but Hannibal was too fast.  As Hannibal touched the hallucination, Will felt the doctor’s hands around his wrists and felt himself convinced that everything the vision had said was unquestionably true.  
        Hannibal pulled Will close, preparing to let him go forever.  He inhaled deeply, wanting to remember the nuances of this final moment, agonizing as it was.  He smelled the salt air, the noxious fumes of gasoline, Will’s unwashed skin and hair, coffee on his breath, and lingering aftershave that very nearly obscured the pyretic hint of illness.  Hannibal did not thank God; he thanked himself.  He sighed with relief just as Will’s teeth sunk into his cheek.


	14. Le Possédé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long wait for a short chapter. My apologies and thanks.

        Will Graham was seated at a table across from Hannibal Lecter, and they were underwater.  Will’s limbs felt heavy, yet at the same time he could barely perceive them; his edges bled into the dark glassy blue of the scene.  Hannibal’s face was deeply shadowed save for a bright cluster of pinpoints that danced in the center of each eye, reflections from the small crystal chandelier that hung between them.  As Will watched, the light increased in intensity and Hannibal’s features grew sharper, more defined.  The dim water began to slowly drain from the room, dissipating like smoke into the ether.  Corners and edges were revealed; the walls were white, the ceiling arched and covered in small tiles.  Will tasted salt, and abruptly realized that he was chewing on a piece of meat.  He froze, blinked, and spit it out, full consciousness arriving in an instant.  He was still staring at Hannibal, but now he _saw_ him.  Hannibal asked, “Have you lost your appetite?”  
        Will looked down at the dish in front of him, which contained some sort of stew.  His throat felt raw as he asked, “What is it?”  
        “Porco à alentejana.”  
         _My name is Will Graham_ , Will thought, but came up blank with a time and location. On the verge of panic, he drew a deep shuddering breath in an attempt to calm himself.  Hannibal said, “You are safe.  You’ve been very ill, but you are improving.”  
        Will noticed that Hannibal’s hair was longer than he remembered and his skin was very tan.  His gaze fixed on the healing wounds on his cheek, which his forensic mind recognized as tooth marks.  “I _bit_ you?”  
        “You have made a few attempts to eat me.  I suppose I’m to blame for giving you the idea.”  
        “How long have I been sick?”  
        “It’s been forty days since your acute signs and symptoms began.”  
        “Where are we?”  
        “Portugal.”  
        “Where’s Abigail?”  
        Hannibal paused.  “Have you seen her?”  
        “No…I meant, where’s the boat?”  
        “Safe in the harbor.  What’s the last thing you remember?”  
        Will struggled to find anything resembling a secure mooring.  He wanted to check certain facts, but was unsure about what was safe to share with the man sitting across from him.  It was quite possible that facts could be bent to serve Hannibal’s will.  Hannibal picked up a fork and reached across the table towards him.  Will flinched.  “You’ve been experiencing severe anxiety and paranoia,” the doctor said calmly, lancing one of the clams in Will’s dish and offering it to him.    
        Will pushed back his chair and ran from the room to the kitchen, where he vomited in the sink.  He looked down and saw a severed ear.  He started when Hannibal spoke from the doorway, “Nausea is a side effect of one of your medications.”  
        Will glanced at the doctor, then peered back into the sink.  The ear was gone.  “You’ve been drugging me.”  
        “I’ve been treating you.”  
        “With what?”  
        “Intravenous immunoglobulin, steroids, immunosuppressants, benzodiazepines.  Standard treatment protocol for a stubborn attack of encephalitis.  I keep a detailed journal, if you’d like to review your dosing schedule along with anything else that may be helpful.”  
        “Y-yes. Please.”  
        He was struck by the thought that anything he read could be a fabrication that only seemed true because it had fed to him while under hypnosis.  A question suddenly rose to the surface.  “Why didn’t Chiyoh shoot Dolarhyde?”  
        Hannibal barely hesitated; Will wondered if he had asked the same question before.  “She tried.  She missed.”  
        “Oh.”  
        Will gripped the sink with both hands, trying to control the waves of fear coursing through him.  He felt like there was something writhing and scratching beneath his skin, eager to distract him with morbid nattering.  He was afraid of what would happen if he paid attention to it, if he lost his focus on the present moment even for an instant. He turned on the water and washed the awful taste out of his mouth.  “I feel like I’ve been poisoned,” he said.  
        “It’s the chemotherapy.  I’m sorry.”  
        Will looked up.  Hannibal had not moved from the doorway; Will could not tell if he was keeping his distance out of politeness or to protect himself.  Will shook his head and said, “ _I’m_ sorry.  I can only imagine how difficult it’s been to take care of me.”  
        “Missing you has been more difficult.”  
        “I’ve been acting like a stranger?”  
        “You've been terrified of me.  Are you afraid now?”  
        Will nodded, wishing it were not true.  Hannibal said, “You are due for your dose of lorazepam soon, which will help.  Unfortunately, it has an amnesiac effect.  Would you rather read before or after?”  
        “Do I have to take it?  I don’t want to lose time again.”  
        “You were on a high dose and are in the process of tapering off, which takes weeks.  Once you’re completely weaned your perception of the passage of time will return to normal, with no gaps unaccounted for.  If you stop taking it now you’ll have withdrawal symptoms.  Intense anxiety, sleeplessness, possible seizures-”  
        “Have I had seizures?”  
        “Two.”  
        Will sighed.  “I’d like to read first.”  
        Hannibal led him through the rooms of the apartment, which was seemingly part of a palace.  As they moved from chamber to chamber Will had the feeling of passing through a recurring dream, everything surreal yet familiar.  “It’s beautiful,” he said.  
        “I agree.  I’m glad you find it so.”  
        They arrived at the library, where books lined the walls from floor to ceiling.  Will could not help but stare in awe at the shelves before settling into a large chair.  The doctor produced a leather notebook and handed it to him, then sat in a chair nearby, occupying himself with his own reading.  Will opened the notebook and saw that the first entry was from months earlier, and detailed the night they had fought and killed Dolarhyde.  Hannibal’s account of what had happened —including being caught in a net— seemed to correlate with his own memories.  Will was not surprised by the entrancing quality of Hannibal’s writing but was taken aback by his own visceral reaction to the contents of the journal.  It was clear that Hannibal wrote for himself and largely for pleasure.  Will read without skipping a single word, sometimes lingering on a passage until the hot flush of arousal had subdued before moving on to the next paragraph.  His body’s response convinced him that he could trust _those_ memories, at least.    
        After an hour had passed, Hannibal quietly said, “May I come closer?”  
        Will nodded, but as the doctor approached he noticed how his patient’s posture tensed and his eyes fixed on him intently, lending him the aspect of a cornered animal.  Hannibal placed three small white pills and a glass of water on the table next to Will’s armchair, then retreated back to his seat on the other side of the room.  Will said, “You stole this medication from the hospital in the Azores.  Where you took me for the…” —he glanced down at the journal for the word— “…plasmapheresis.”  
        “Yes, it was quite an adventure.”  
        “Did you kill anyone?”  
        “No.”  
        “I’m relieved to hear that.  You took a risk bringing me there.”  
        “Plasmapheresis is a first-line treatment.  Sadly, your symptoms weren't alleviated.  Perhaps if we’d had more time.”  
        Will began to tremble as he took the pills.  The fear of losing more memory was overwhelming.  The tears came hot and fast; holding them back was an impossibility.  “This is only temporary.  You are getting better,” Hannibal said.    
        Will put his head back, closed his eyes, and focused on getting his breathing under control.  They sat in silence for a long time, until Will’s grip on the journal slackened and it fell to the floor face-open.  Hannibal rose and picked it up, marked Will’s place, and set it on the table.  “You are getting better,” he repeated, half to himself, like a mantra.  
    


	15. N'importe où hors du monde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have been in a hole.

       Will Graham supposed that the hallucinations would never stop; he had them when he was ill and he had them when he was dubiously well.  So when he now observed a vision of himself seated in a chair beside the doctor, he did not immediately dismiss it as the product of a diseased mind.  The last time he had attempted to ignore this other self was on the boat.  He remembered watching the gasoline being spilled, remembered the moment of switching perspective, of being possessed by the version of himself who believed that murder-suicide was the only solution to the problem that he thought he had resolved, which he now realized he had merely repressed.  He remembered very clearly the intolerable feeling of shame and disgust, the wrongness of his past intention and action, the self-deception that left him in the middle of a dark ocean, entangled in every way possible with a serial killer.  To die would have been easy then, but Hannibal had embraced him and then there was nothing, not even a gaping blackness that stood in for the passage of time.    
        He now observed the other Will, who was wearing one of his fine suits, whose hair was combed, face clean-shaven and wearing an expression of startling empathy.  His eyes were limpid, almost teary, and were watching him.  Will felt cold to his bones despite the warm summer air, and he thought if he looked in the mirror he would see himself dripping wet, the disheveled wreck of a man who had haunted his nightmares.    
        The hallucination placed one hand on Hannibal’s arm and reached the other out towards Will.  Hannibal looked up from his reading and saw Will staring into space.  The doctor said, “I would like to take you somewhere.”  
        Will continued staring at the empty chair across from him.  “Where?”  
        “Not far.  It rather defies description.  You must come and see.”  
        “Okay,” said Will, rising slowly to his feet.    
        Hannibal and the other Will got up, too.  Hannibal turned to lead the way, and the other followed, still watching Will to make sure he came along.  Will thought the other appeared kind, patient, composed.  He felt a twinge of envy.  
        They went outside, got into a car, and drove into the summer night.  During the ride, Will began to feel his eyes grow heavy, and the next thing he knew he was walking on a dark path somewhere outdoors and unfamiliar.  He started violently and came to a stop, cursing.    
        Hannibal considered the use of expletives rather uncouth, but considering Will’s illness he had forgiven a lot of obscenity over the past several weeks, so much so, in fact, that it had almost ceased to bother him.  He began at the beginning of the script he had been using to soothe Will after one of these incidents.  “You are safe.”  
        “I don’t remember getting out of the car.”  
        “Do you remember agreeing to come along?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “That’s good.  Do you recall what I said about your medication?”  
        “It can cause amnesia.  Where are we?”  
        “Quinta da Regaleira, an estate near Sintra.”  
        “Does someone live here?”  
        “Not for many years.  It’s a World Heritage site.”  
        Will looked around.  The place was deserted.  “Is this an after-hours tour?”  
        “I didn’t pay admission, if that’s what you mean.”  
        Will laughed once, breathlessly.  They continued to walk along the path until a fanciful castle-like building came into view.  Will gazed at it in wonder for a few minutes until Hannibal quietly said, “We could spend hours exploring the grounds, but there is something I want you to experience.”  
        They continued on through lush gardens along winding paths, eventually arriving at what appeared to be a circular stone wall.  They walked around the perimeter until they found steps that led downwards into a profound darkness.  Hannibal said,  “It’s an underground tower they call the initiation well.”  
        As they began to descend the spiral staircase, he continued, “There are nine platforms, representing Dante’s rings of Hell.”  
        Will ran his hand along the rough stone wall and focused all of his attention on finding the next step, and the next, and soon fell into a sort of trance.  They eventually reached the bottom.  Will’s voice broke the silence; he was not sure if it was himself or the hallucination that spoke, “The lowest ring of Hell is reserved for betrayers.”  
        “Do you think this is where you belong?”  
        Will braced himself.  This would be the perfect place for Hannibal to kill him; it suited his sense of symbolism.  He expected the attack to come in the form of a small curved knife thrust into his abdomen, recreating the wound that had been inflicted in the kitchen, finally uniting him with Abigail.  “Yes.  I tried to kill us.  Again.”  
        “You were ill at the time.  You weren’t responsible for your actions.”  
        “And before?”  
        “You were conflicted.”  
        “I still feel conflicted.”  
        “You wish you had succeeded?”  
        “No!”    
        Will’s voice echoed in the tower.  “No,” he repeated, softly. “I wish I didn’t feel so split in two.  I wish I were…stable.”  
        Hannibal was silent for a moment.  “I brought you here because I believe it may help you find some peace.  There are two ways out…back the way we came or onward through the caves.  Through the darkness.  I’m going to leave you now.”  
        “Leave me?”  
        “Not in any permanent sense.  Take as long as you need.”  
        Will heard Hannibal walk away, footsteps echoing slightly as they faded.  Will supposed he had gone on through the caves he had mentioned.  He had the impulse to follow immediately, but something held him back.  He looked up at the circle of starry sky, far above.  It was tempting to climb back up into that pale light.  “I used to help people,” he said.  
        “You helped them by imagining how you would hurt them.”  
        Will recognized his own voice, though he wasn’t sure if he had actually spoken aloud or not.  Talking to oneself was a bad sign, but such things hardly mattered anymore.  “I felt for others.  For the victims.”  
        “You felt for the killers, too.  Victims or killers, who draws your deepest sympathies?  
        “It doesn’t work like that and you know it.  The depth of my feelings isn’t drawn along lines of good and evil.”  
        “Yet you’re still judging yourself as something bad.  You were afraid of falling in love with the Devil.  You thought it was Hannibal, but it’s yourself.”  
        Will began to walk in the direction Hannibal had gone, feeling his way along the wall until he found the opening to the cave.  It was slow going, but he edged forward into the pitch black.  He gradually began to lose awareness of his physical body, until he felt as if he were just a formless consciousness drifting through the dark, attached loosely to the sensation of the stone against his fingertips.  It scratched slightly, sharp edges catching his skin, and that small pain provided a conduit for the mental anguish to flow out and away.  He lost track of time as his mind grew oddly blank.  Eventually he sensed a change, a glimmer of light ahead.  He continued at the same pace until he reached the end, where he saw the light was reflected off of the surface of a small lake.  Flat stones were raised above the water’s surface to provide a path.  “See?” spoke a voice beside him.  
        Will turned and looked at himself, the person he had been struggling to accept.  He was not just a reflection of Dr. Lecter; he was a complete being in his own right.  He was a killer and he was willing and able to help those in need.  He was self-possessed.  He was beautiful.  Will nodded, and though he was still scared, reached out and took the other’s hand.    
        He stepped forward onto the first stone, slipped, and fell into the water.  For an instant he was completely submerged, and the cold pressed in from all sides, sealing him firmly back into his body.  He surfaced and began to laugh as he floated on his back, kicking his way lazily to the opposite shore where Hannibal was waiting.  The doctor laughed, too, as he helped Will out of the lake.    
        On the drive home, Will said, “I’d like another attempt at dinner.”  
        Hannibal reheated the porco à alentejana while Will took off his sopping wet suit and changed into a lighter blue one.  He chose a cream-colored shirt to go with it and a deep blue tie.  He still could not bring himself to wear a pocket square and would likely never be able to do so.  Pleased with the look, he joined his companion at the dinner table.  Hannibal served the dish again.  Will savored it this time, appreciating how the flavors mingled.  Will asked, “This is us, isn’t it?”  
        Hannibal smiled mischievously.  “How do you mean?”  
        “The pork represents you…well, your favorite secret ingredient.  And the clams are me…my, _uh_ , connection with water.”  
        “You certainly connected with water tonight.”  
        Will laughed again.  Hannibal was cheered by the sound.  They dined slowly, and afterwards Hannibal played a piece of his own composition on the piano.  He had begun working on it the night Will had woken to the call of coyotes, the night Hannibal had screamed in his sleep for Mischa, and thus the beginning was frightful, yet it yielded into a melody so sweet and joyous that it brought tears to Will’s eyes.  When Hannibal was finished he said,  “I have another I’d like to play for you, but it’s meant for the harpsichord.”  
        “Maybe in Lithuania.”  
        Hannibal took in his shy smile, his hopeful expression, and could not resist.  “Yes, we’ll go there next.  But first, to bed.  You need your rest.”  
        Hannibal accompanied Will down the hall.  Will felt that he had dreamt of the bedroom but was just now seeing it for the first time.  As they were about to cross the threshold he noticed a lock on the outside of the door and looked questioningly at Hannibal, who said, “There were times when it was necessary, to keep you safe.  I think those times have passed.”  
        Will stepped into the room and said, “I don’t think I’m ready to sleep.”  
        Hannibal entered the adjoining bathroom and returned with a glass of water and another pill.  “This will help.  It will be some time yet before you’ll be able to sleep without it.”    
        Though Will’s heart sank a little, he obediently took the medication.  The whispers of fear and paranoia that had faded in the cave were now hovering around the edges of his consciousness, and he was willing to do nearly anything to keep these symptoms at bay.  He believed now that they were indeed just symptoms, no longer a sign of a fractured personality.  “Thank you for taking me to that place.”  
        Will felt tears roll down his face.  Embarrassed, he turned away.  Hannibal said, “You do well to mourn your losses.”  
        “I want to enjoy what remains.  I want you.”  
        Will reached out and slid a finger around the knot of Hannibal’s tie.  The doctor gently stilled his hand.  “Are you still frightened?”  
        “A little nervous, yeah.”  
        “Let’s not push it.  You’ve had enough stimulation for one evening.”  
        Hannibal squeezed his hand once, then let it go.  Will felt a brief sting of rejection, but immediately saw that Hannibal’s priority was his health and that he was only being careful.  “Am I not well enough to consent?” he asked, genuinely curious.  
        “Borderline.  I don’t want to violate your trust.”  
        “You’ve been sleeping in another room.”  
        Hannibal nodded.  “You’ll be getting drowsy soon.  Better wash up and lie down.”  
        When Will returned from the bathroom, Hannibal was gone.  He saw that the sheets had been turned down, as if to tempt him into bed.  He climbed in, noticing the soothing aroma of lavender.  The door was left ajar and a dim light shone just outside in the hallway.  Will curled up on his side, feeling pleasantly like a child.


	16. Alchimie De La Douleur

  
        Hannibal Lecter respected that convalescence was a gradual process, but in the company of Will Graham he found himself touched by its poetry.  He had not lied; he _had_ been sleeping in another room, but when he was not sleeping he preferred to sit by Will’s bed, monitoring him for additional seizure activity while he slept, providing medicine as needed, and guiding him out of nightmares.    
        Day by day and sometimes hourly he tracked the changes as his patient slowly recovered.  They took long walks to the sea.  They talked for hours, often in circles, and gradually the conversation began to build upon itself and move forward as Will’s memory improved.  Hannibal did not find the repetition wearisome but rather like a form of chanted prayer.  He would ask Will to describe what they had seen on their daily walk; going over the details helped consolidate the memories and anchor him to reality.  The night at the Quinta da Regaleira proved to be a fulcrum upon which his mental state took an upswing; he recalled it vividly, and afterwards his terror all but ceased.  Hannibal soon felt it safe to sail again.  The doctor created and enforced the sleep schedule, and Will deferred to his judgment without argument.  Will created and enforced the love-making schedule, and Hannibal had absolutely no complaints.  
        Even as the sea shifted beneath the hull, Will enjoyed a new sense of stability.  It was a long and challenging voyage from Portugal to Lithuania.  They stopped in dozens of ports along the way, and Hannibal showed him such beauty everywhere they went that it was often tempting to stay.  They mainly went ashore at night, wearing what Hannibal referred to disdainfully as _tourist costumes_ : shorts, pastel-colored polo shirts, and sandals.  The baseball caps and large sunglasses they sported during the day had the dual function of helping them blend in and protecting them from facial recognition satellite software.  Though it chafed at his sensibility, Hannibal would rather be unfashionable than incarcerated.    
        Will was eager to arrive where Hannibal had begun, to see him as he never had.  He felt prepared to handle whatever was in store; though he remembered Chiyoh’s warning that there were places where it was not safe for Hannibal to go, he hoped that his presence might make it easier to endure.  
        Chiyoh was waiting at the harbor with a big black sedan. Hannibal drove them back to Lecter Castle, a four and a half hour trip that was spent mostly in silence.  The only sign of nervousness Will sensed from the doctor was a slightly tighter than usual grip on the steering wheel.  When they pulled up to the castle and got out of the car, Hannibal said, “Please go inside and make yourselves comfortable.  I need to walk alone.”  
        Hannibal stared at his childhood home for a moment, his expression unreadable, then turned and set off across the grounds.  Will and Chiyoh went to her hunting cabin, where she made tea.  “Is he all right?” Will asked.  
        “I believe so, or he would not go alone.”  
        “I hope he can turn to me, and that I can support him.”  
        “He relies on you more than you may realize…and you have become stronger.”  
        They gazed at each other.  “Did you ever imagine the two of us would be here again, sharing tea?”  
        “We share more than tea.”  
        “The man in the cellar.  Is he still there?”  
        “As far as I know.  I don’t go down there.  There are places that are unsafe for me, too, here.”  
        “I owe you an apology.”  
        “You afforded me a freedom I could never have allowed myself.”  
        When it began to grow dark they moved to the castle, where Chiyoh lit a fire in one of the great hearths.  Will excused himself to go check on the remains of what he had created in the cellar.  The arrangement was in better condition than he had expected, considering the intervening years.  The cadaver itself had mummified in the cool dry air, its blackened skin pulled tightly over the skull.  Will spent a few hours fixing the ropes that had slackened and replacing fragments of shattered glass that had fallen out of the design.  Satisfied, he returned upstairs.  When the time came and went for his evening medication, he began to grow slightly concerned about Hannibal’s absence.  Will knew the correct dosages, but this was something Hannibal supervised without fail.  Will took the required pills and tried to relax.  After another hour had passed he asked Chiyoh to accompany him to look for Hannibal.  She gave him a flashlight at his request, got her rifle, and they headed out into the September night.  “You may see better without the light,” she suggested.    
        Will switched it off and found that after a few minutes he could see quite well by the moon.  He had parted with his glasses long ago, and his distance vision was slightly blurred but adequate for the task.  They took a wide lap around the castle into the adjoining woods, eventually crossing a trail through the forest.  “Is this the logging path?” Will asked.  
        “Yes.  Hannibal has asked me not to walk here, out of respect for Mischa.”  
        “I think he went this way.  I’m going on.  I understand if you can’t follow.”  
        “Thank you.  I’ll be waiting.”  
        She bowed slightly, turned, and walked back towards the castle.  Will continued along the path, and soon he was beneath dense trees that blocked out the moonlight.  He switched on the flashlight and was startled to see the reflected eyes of a deer up ahead on the trail.  It bounded away as Will continued forward.  He recalled that the paths stretched for miles through the forest.  He knew that pursuing Hannibal despite his desire to be alone might anger him.  Yet he felt compelled to move deeper and deeper into the trees, sweeping his flashlight slowly back and forth.  After an hour of walking he spotted a figure up ahead and breathed a sigh of relief.  As he drew near and his vision focused, he abruptly realized that it was not Hannibal.  It was a man in his mid-thirties dressed in hunter’s clothes, his dark red-brown hair unruly and stuck to his face with sweat, his hands up as if he were being arrested.  He looked directly at Will, the pupils of his hazel eyes constricting in the beam of the flashlight.  “Hello, Mr. Graham.”  
        Will froze, his pulse thundering in his ears.  The man spoke again, “I’m sorry to startle you like this.  I didn’t see any other way.”  
        “Who are you?”  
        “One of your former students.  I sat in the back.  I was quiet.”  
        Will noticed that the man’s hands were trembling.  “You’re FBI?”  
        The man held his gaze, but his voice further betrayed his nervousness, “Yes, s-sir.”  
        “Is Hannibal in custody?”  
        “My custody.  Unofficial.”  
        “Are you alone?”  
        “Oh, decidedly.”  
        “Where is he?”  
        “Somewhere safe, secure, and reasonably comfortable.  Dr. Lecter wouldn’t have let me get close enough to talk to you.  Think about it…would he let you have a friend?”  
        Will paused, trying to calm his racing heart.  “You want to be my _friend_?”  
        The man nodded and said softly, “This is a regrettable way to go about it.”  
        “I don’t need a friend.”  
        “I disagree,” he said even more quietly.  
        “What have you done with Dr. Lecter?”  
        “Taken him out of the equation for a while, so you can have some freedom to think.”  
        “Please don’t speak to me like you know me.”  
        “I’m sorry.  I feel as though I do know you to a certain extent.”  
        “Based on my lectures?”  
        “You reveal so much of yourself when you teach.  Your good heart drawn to darkness.  Your terror of people despite —or due to— your ability to see a human being in totality, beyond the blunt description of textbook prose and labels such as v-victim.”  
        The man looked away then, and Will saw his face flush.  Will felt a spark of recognition as he recalled a younger version of this auburn-haired man.  “Your name is Aubrey, right?  You came up to me after class once.  You asked if childhood abuse correlates with adult criminal behavior.”  
        “That…that’s right.  You told me it doesn’t, for the majority.”  
        Aubrey held his breath for a moment, then let out a short nervous laugh and said, “I always wondered if something happened to you, like it happened to me…to make us the way we are.”  
        “Nothing happened to me.  I happened.”  
        The man dropped his gaze to the ground in shame.  Will felt an unexpected twinge of guilt, conflicting with his impulse to attack the man.  It took a minute for Aubrey to speak again.  “Do you think this is where he made his first kill?  Where he first tasted human flesh?  Maybe one and not the other.  I can imagine it happening here…can you?”  
        Of course Will could, but he was not going to discuss it.  “Why have you done this?”  
        “For you.”  
        “What do you want from me?”  
        “To spend some time with you.  To talk.  That’s it.”  
        “Did you hurt him?”  
        “No.  I’ve never hurt anyone.”  
        Will frowned.  “How long have you been a field agent?”  
        “I’m not.  Can’t pull the trigger.”  
        Will mentally pushed aside the familiarity of that statement.  He stepped forward.  The younger man flinched.  Will stopped and said, “I’m just going to frisk you for weapons.”  
        Will made it quick, and when he was satisfied said, “You can put your hands down.  Walk in front of me.”  
        Aubrey obeyed.  Will directed him back towards the castle, staying close behind him in case he made a run for it.  Will attempted to gather his thoughts.  He was angry and did not want to do anything impulsive.  “How did you apprehend Dr. Lecter?”  
        “With a tranquilizer dart.”  
        “Are you a hunter?”  
        “Yes, sir.”  
        “You said you came here for me.  How did you know I’d be here?”  
        “I found out this was Dr. Lecter’s ancestral home, and figured he would come here eventually.  And if he came, so would you.”  
        “Were you planning on hunting me, too?  With the tranquilizer gun?”  
        “No…no…just Dr. Lecter.”  
        “So you could have me to yourself.”  
        “You make it sound so depraved.  I couldn’t see any other way to talk to you.”  
        “What do you want to talk to me about, Aubrey?”  
        “Your options.  You may not want to hear it, but Dr. Lecter isn’t the only person in the world who can fulfill you.  There are healthier choices, Mr. Graham.”  
        “I suppose you’re healthier?”  
        “If not me, someone else.”  
        “It’s rather presumptuous of you, interfering with my personal life like this.”  
        “I know.  I apologize.  But I’m concerned for you, Mr. Graham.”  
        “Though it’s really none of your business, I have a connection with Hannibal that I’ve never experienced with anyone else.”  
        “Forgive me for saying so, but that sounds like a justification.  You weren’t looking for a connection.  You wandered across his path like a wounded animal, caught his attention.  I realized you were an avoidant type within the first minute of your first lecture.  It takes a lot to draw you out.  I bet you weren’t interested in Dr. Lecter for quite some time.  You probably even told him so…did what you could to make him leave you alone.  But he was patient and persistent, and it paid off.  Mr. Graham, you do realize that Dr. Lecter has seduced you?”  
        Aubrey spoke about Will’s history with Hannibal as if he had been there, witnessing it unfold.  Will wondered if he had been sent by Alana Bloom.  She _had_ seemed to give up a bit too easily.  “Where are you getting all of this?"  
        “It’s in the files…like evidence to be interpreted.  It’s between the lines of Freddie Lounds’ sorry excuse for journalistic content.  It’s in your eyes, in photographs.  The report Jack Crawford made when Dr. Lecter was apprehended was that he surrendered himself at your house.  Couldn’t let you go.  And three years later, you set him free.”  
        “I went to him to stop a killer.”  
        “Which killer?  Lecter or Dolarhyde?”  
        “Both of them.  All of us.”  
        “Including yourself.”  
        “Yes.”  
        Will was not sure why he was revealing such things; the words seemed to spill from his mouth unbidden.  Aubrey said, “But then there was a sea change.”  
        Will nodded, even though the other man could not see him.    
        When they reached the castle, Chiyoh was waiting in the foyer to let them in.  She looked from the stranger to Will in confusion.  “So, you’ve never laid eyes on him before,” Will said.  
        “Who is this?”  
        “He claims to have taken Hannibal hostage.”  
        “To what end?”  
        “He wants to talk to me.”  
        “What will you do?”  
        “Listen to him.”  
        Will guided Aubrey inside, gestured for him to take a seat in front of the fire.  Will took a nearby seat.  Aubrey glanced sheepishly in the direction of Chiyoh.  “Can we…please be alone?”  
        Will said to Chiyoh, “I’ve checked him for weapons.  I think it’s safe for us to talk alone.”  
        He turned his attention back to Aubrey and asked, “You’re not here to hurt me, are you?”  
        “No, sir.”  
        Chiyoh asked, “If he doesn’t tell you where Hannibal is, what will you do then?”  
        “If you’re referring to torture, I hope it doesn’t come to that.  Aubrey, if I give you what you want, will you give me what I want?”  
        “Yes, sir.”  
        “Shake on it?”  
        Will leaned forward and extended his hand.  Aubrey took his hand in a firm grip.  Chiyoh left the room.  The younger man said, “I think she wants to skip to the torture.”  
        “One of her primary drives is to protect Hannibal.”  
        “He’s not in any danger…as long as I’m alive.  If I die, you will never find him.”  
        “I believe you.  And I meant it when I said that I hope it doesn’t come to torture.”  
        “You’re not t-turned on by that sort of thing?”  
        “No.”  
        Even as he said it, Will wondered if that were entirely true.  He recalled a dream in which Hannibal was tied to a tree, a rope slowly tightening around his neck at Will’s command.  It had felt good to have that power over him, pleasure that bordered on sexual.  
        Aubrey said, “Dr. Lecter is sadistic.  Yet you approve of him.”  
        “I don’t approve of all of his behavior.  We make compromises for each other.”  
        “You deserve someone who loves you, understands you, and doesn’t hurt you.  Someone who doesn’t manipulate you into doing things you don’t want to-”  
        “Hannibal satisfies all of those requirements-”  
        “Someone who doesn’t eat people.”  
        Will laughed.  “Oh.  _That_.”  
        Aubrey smiled.  “Yes, that.”  
        “Do you think it’s wrong?”  
        “No.  I think it’s unnecessary.  Do you find it necessary, like he does?”  
        “Not strictly.  I see it as secondary to the more important distinction between people like Hannibal and myself, and other people…you, for instance.”  
        “You’re killers and I’m not.  Not yet, at least.”  
        “Is that something you aspire to?”  
        “Not aspire.  It’s what I’ve always feared is inevitable.”  
        “You said you wonder if abuse made us the way we are.  What did you mean?”  
        “Oh.  The, uh…the _empathy disorder_ or whatever they call it.  If something that was done to us made us hypersensitive to the emotions and intentions of others.  But s-so much for that theory.”  
        “You think we’re alike, you and I?”  
        “Very much so, in some ways.”  
        “What do you imagine I’m thinking now?”  
        “That I’m an interloper, irritating and confusing.  You’re wondering if I have _de Clérambault_ ’s syndrome, an erotic fixation on you, Mr. Graham.  Though I do deeply admire you, I don’t harbor any delusions about you returning my affection.”  
        “But you would like it if I did.”  
        “If wishes were fishes.  Mr. Graham…I’m realistic.  For my damage, rather grounded.  You must understand why I’ve done this.  I needed to make sure someone tried to reach you.”  
        “Others have tried.”  
        Aubrey nodded thoughtfully.  “Enjoy some time away from Dr. Lecter and thoughts of Dr. Lecter.”  
        “I spent three _years_ away from Dr. Lecter in very pleasant company and still could not get him out from under my skin.”  
        “Mere pleasantness won’t cut it.  You require an unusual combination of stability and violence.”  
        “You really think you understand me.  And Hannibal.  Who and what we are together.”  
        “He is as close to the Devil as a human being can be…and please don’t think I fail to see the attraction.  He is a sophisticated atypical psychopath who seems to be capable of forming deep attachments with a select few.  Together you are a criminal dyad…Freddie Lounds’ terminology is somewhat laughable, but _murder husbands_ is not too far off the mark.  You, however, are far more interesting than Dr. Lecter.  You are not a natural psychopath.  You have the power to bring a lot of light to the world, Mr. Graham.  You can help people in a way that very few can.”  
        “Aubrey…I _enjoy_ killing.”  
        The other man did not miss a beat.  “I’m sure you are guided by necessity, and that your victims are far from innocent.  You said you’re not a sadist.  For you, it must feel _righteous_ to remove bad people from the world.”  
        “That doesn’t matter.  I’ve crossed a line and there’s no going back.”  
        “There could be.  The FBI has nothing on you.  You’re just wanted for questioning.  You have a way back, Mr. Graham, and I’m here to show you that if you wanted to return to that life you would not be alone this time.  Unless you wanted to be.  I could be there with you, for you…sharing the burden.”  
        Silence fell.  Will let it deepen, then said, “If you’ve been so…concerned for me for so long, why didn’t you help me back then?”  
        Aubrey grimaced in pain.  “I was afraid.  _Shy_ doesn’t cover the level of social inhibition.  It’s a very poor excuse.  I’m sorry…I regret…not trying.  Back then I wouldn’t even have been able to ask you to get a cup of coffee with me, t-that is, if I’d known you were gay.”  
        “I didn’t know, either,” Will said off-handedly.  
        Aubrey looked at the floor.  Will stared at him.  He was indeed shy despite his bold actions, struggling for the right words, still trembling in Will’s presence.  Will found himself wondering if the things he spoke of were possible.  Reluctant as he was to admit it, Aubrey seemed like the real deal in terms of his ability to read people and situations.  Could this near-stranger truly understand him and the way he saw the world?  “I’d like to show you something.  Stand up.”  
        Will directed the younger man to walk ahead of him as they descended into the wine cellar.  Aubrey froze for a moment —just a moment— as the arrangement came into view, then continued down the steps until he reached the floor.  Will stood by the foot of the stairs and said, “Tell me what you see.”  
        Aubrey looked at him and nodded, aware that this was a test.  Will expected him to be at least a little flustered, but instead he slowly and deliberately approached the hanging corpse, letting his eyes run over the intricate weaving that held it aloft, before stepping back and taking in the whole piece.  It occurred to Will that Aubrey was contemplating it as it was intended, as a work of art, and this gave him a jolt of pleasurable excitement that he had not anticipated and did not know what to do with.  The man with ruddy hair kept his back to Will as he asked, “You killed him?”  
        “I am responsible for his death.”  
        “I see.  This man…is important to Dr. Lecter.  Not as a father figure…no.  A childhood monster.  He caused Dr. Lecter great pain.  This is your gift to him…a loving gift, intended to soothe.  Transforming the monstrous into beauty.”  
        Aubrey glanced back over his shoulder.  He did not have to ask if his analysis was correct.  Will gestured for him to go back upstairs.  He dragged a mattress and bedding out of one of the bedrooms and placed it on the floor of the stone larder off the kitchen, then locked Aubrey inside, wedging a heavy chair under the handle for added security.  Now Will was trembling, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.    
        Dr. Lecter had warned him that sleep deprivation, especially combined with stress, could bring on another seizure. It was already well past midnight and he wanted to begin searching at first light.  He informed Chiyoh of his intentions and took two sleeping pills.    
        He dreamt of fishing, bathed in warm golden light reflected off a swiftly moving stream.  Beside him was an auburn-haired man, who asked in a quiet tone, “How am I doing?”  
        Will watched him cast the line.  “Pretty good, for a beginner.  Hold the rod like you’re shaking someone’s hand.”  
        Will reached over and adjusted the other man’s grip, then watched as he blushed exquisitely at his touch, a bright pink spot appearing in the center of each cheek and spiraling outwards, nearly down to his lips.  Aubrey cast again.  “Better that time,” said Will.  
        Aubrey smiled, and Will had the impulse to lean over and kiss him.  Just as he moved to do so, black antler tips pierced his companion’s torso from behind, ribbons of blood erupting from the exit wounds on his chest.  Will looked at the familiar dark figure looming behind him, taking in all of his horror and beauty, then embraced Aubrey, impaling himself onto the sharp points.  He awoke with a gasp, disoriented, and for a moment believed it had all been a dream, and that he would find Hannibal making breakfast in the kitchen, but instead found a chair jammed under the larder door.    
        He opened the door, revealing Aubrey sitting on the mattress with his back against the wall, hugging his knees to his chest.  The younger man looked up, and Will could not help but notice that his eyes were red and puffy, as if he had been crying.  Again, Will felt a twinge of guilt that conflicted with his feelings of animosity towards the man.  He untied him and let him use the bathroom, then gave him food and water.  “I’m sorry if you were uncomfortable, but I needed the security.”  
        Aubrey said quietly, “I understand.”  
        “I’m going to look for Hannibal now.  Do you know what will happen to you if I find him?”      
        “You won’t.”  
        “If I do.”  
        “I came here having accepted that I may very likely be killed and eaten.”  
        Will regarded him with bemusement.  “I think it was more than failure to pull the trigger that kept you from the field.”  
        “And maybe kept me from being a profiler, too.”  
        “I think you would make a great profiler.”  
        They searched each other’s eyes.  Will sealed him back in the larder and headed into the forest.  He walked for miles along the path, searching for any disruption in the vegetation that might indicate where Aubrey had dragged Hannibal off the path, assuming he had not taken him away in a vehicle.  About three miles in, he caught sight of a small hunting cabin.  Upon closer inspection, it had been in disuse for some time, the roof riddled with holes.  Inside, however, he found clothing, canned food and bottled water, a blanket on a narrow cot, cooking implements, a compound bow with arrows, hunting knives, and a fishing pole.  Will did not look too closely at the fishing gear; he did not want to know if Aubrey tied his own flies.    
        Everything was neatly organized; nothing to indicate that violence had occurred.  Will got the impression that Aubrey had been living here for an extended period, perhaps months.  He scrutinized the woods around the cabin for several hours to no avail, then decided to return back to the castle to use the car to search further afield.  
        Late that evening, when Will returned with the sedan and without Hannibal, Chiyoh asked, “How long can this continue?”  
        Will shook his head.  He entered the larder and sat down next to his captive.  “Please, tell me where he is.”  
        “Not yet.”  
        “When?”  
        “Two more days.”  
        “What difference will that make?”  
        “Time.  For you to think.”  
        Will was silent.  Aubrey continued, “All I want is for you to give it serious thought.”  
        “It’s hard to take it seriously.  I barely know you.”  
        “What do you need to know?  I’ll tell you anything.”  
        “Why were you crying in here last night?”  
        “Bad memories.”  
        “This room reminds you of something from your past?”  
        Aubrey nodded miserably.  It occurred to Will that the man was dehydrated and probably very hungry.  He brought him water and part of a pheasant that Chiyoh had caught and roasted.  Aubrey drained the glass but made no move towards the food.  “Mr. Graham-”  
        “Just call me Will.”  
        “Will,” he said, savoring the feeling of the name in his mouth.  “Will, it isn’t a complicated decision.  I’m offering you the opportunity to be free of Hannibal.  You only need to decide what you want.  Do you really want to be a fugitive for the rest of your life?  Is that sustainable?”  
        “I feel free when I’m with him.”  
        “He freed you…and while you were sleepwalking, ushered you into another cage.”  
        “I don’t believe that,” Will said, rising to his feet.    
        Aubrey looked up at him, eyes wide with fear, suddenly appearing much younger.  Will said, “Get up.  I won’t lock you in here again.”  
        

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What should be done with Aubrey?


	17. Le Guignon

        Hannibal slowly regained consciousness to a sweet, fresh, dark aroma, instinctively knowing that he was underground. Based on the sluggish response of his muscles as he tried to sit up, he could tell that he had been drugged. Instead of struggling, he relaxed completely and waited, staring at an unfamiliar concrete ceiling. He recalled being shot in the neck with a dart, pulling it out just before falling to his knees and then collapsing to the ground. He rather liked the suit he was wearing and hoped that it had not been torn.    
        The room was profoundly quiet. The doctor briefly hummed a snippet of opera to check that his hearing was intact. Hannibal tested the flexion and extension of his right fingers. Once they were moving without delay, he sat up and took in his surroundings.  
        He was in a bunker that measured about fifteen feet long by ten feet wide, constructed from concrete blocks. He was sitting on a twin-size bed covered by a wool blanket. Under the bed was a plastic box with a thermal clothing set in size large, still wrapped in its packaging.  Next to the bed on a small metal table was the only source of light in the room: a plastic camping lantern that ran on batteries, with a pack of additional batteries beside it.  Hannibal picked up the lantern and searched the room. There was a shelf built into the far wall, on which rested a copy of Dante’s _Inferno_ in Italian, a blank sketch book of high quality paper, and pens and pencils. There was also an old Walkman, headphones, and a wide assortment of classical music on compact disc, along with another pack of batteries. Hannibal saw that this curious assemblage had been intended specifically for him. He continued to explore the room, next stopping to examine a large metal cabinet full of canned food and what appeared to be venison jerky. That was somewhat heartbreaking, but at least everything was marked _organic._ There was a small propane camp stove with two extra propane tanks. Beside that were a few pots and pans, a can opener, and a cutlery set. Twenty gallons of spring water were lined up in plastic jugs along the wall. Hannibal concluded his tour with an inspection of an alcove in the corner furthest from the bed. Through the cutout was a short tunnel separated from the living space by a plastic flap, and beyond that a rudimentary bathroom which included a latrine, wash basin, towels, and basic toiletries. Hannibal returned to the bed. The frame was metal and bolted to the concrete, as was all of the other furniture in the room. A glance at the ceiling revealed why; there was a square metal trapdoor that was too high off the ground for Hannibal to reach unless he stood on something. Also out of reach was a small air vent near the ceiling.    
        He lay back down on the bed. He was irritated to say the least, but somewhat grateful that the dimensions of the room were generous enough to not immediately trigger his claustrophobia. Whoever had imprisoned him intended for him to survive for at least a week. Whoever it was also clearly knew quite a bit about him and his preferences, and had attempted to make this unhappy place at least somewhat tolerable.  Hannibal did not want to think that Will had done it, but the thought stormed irrepressibly through his mind. He acknowledged the idea, considered it objectively, and let it flow away, closing his eyes and entering his memory palace.  
      
        Aubrey carried his mattress to the lookout tower, while Will illuminated the way with a flashlight. The room was unfurnished; there was nothing with which to make a weapon. The windows were large, which meant that the space would be well-lit during the day, unlike the pitch blackness of the larder. The windows were not barred, but he did not think that Aubrey would go through all of this trouble just to leap to his death. Keeping the other man in his line of sight, Will opened one of the windows and glanced out, first at the clear night sky, then down at the ground far below, irrationally expecting to see Hannibal looking up at him. He left the window open to allow the cool breeze to enter. The moonlight created a patch of silver on the floor. Will said, “Lie down.”  
        Aubrey stretched out on his back on the mattress, positioning himself in the shape of light, eyes never leaving Will. Will meant to leave immediately, but his gaze dropped to the sharp hipbones just visible beneath the hem of Aubrey’s hunting sweater. When he had frisked him in the forest he could not help but notice the lean strength of his body. He wondered if the tawny freckles across his nose and cheeks were isolated there or if the rest of his skin was also dappled.  In this pale light he would have to get very close to tell.    
        Will realized that he had been staring for too long when Aubrey’s breath hitched slightly. He turned and left the room, locking the door behind him with a key that appeared to be authentically medieval.  
        Ashamed of his unexpected attraction to the person who had kidnapped his lover, Will filled the bathtub with cold water and submerged himself until not even a whisper of sexual excitement remained in his body. He ate a quick dinner, took two sleeping pills and put himself to bed, hoping for a night of dreamless sleep.     
        Will could not see a single trace of light through the blindfold; it had been expertly tied. He was on his hands and knees on a surface that was mercilessly hard and cold, his wrists and ankles bound securely with rope, also expertly tied. From above and behind him, fingers laced gently around his throat and a voice said, equally gently, “Unfaithful.”  
        Hannibal’s unmistakable timbre. Flooded with guilt, Will nodded weakly in Dr. Lecter’s grasp. The hands squeezed tightly, with precision, and did not relent until Will teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. Hannibal allowed him to recover his senses, then said, “You’ve driven me to resort to this form of punishment I swore I’d never use.”  
        The hands left his throat, and the intense terror and thrill of not knowing what would happen next hit Will so hard that he could not contain his arousal. His orgasm woke him and he lay shaking in ecstasy, the sheet wrapped over his eyes and around his neck. “Fuck,” he said into the empty room.  
         _How could things get so complicated so fast?_ was the thought that followed him through breakfast. Chiyoh was looking at him askance.  Will said, “He has informed me that this will be over in two days.”  
        “A person can live for three days without water. Do you think that is coincidental?”  
        “He said Hannibal is safe and _reasonably_ comfortable. Letting him die of thirst seems to violate that statement.”  
        “I don’t understand what he’s trying to accomplish.”  
        “I think he wants me to leave Hannibal.”  
        “Do you know him?”  
        “He’s a former student who is obsessed with me. We weren’t close.”  
        “Weren’t?”  
        “Weren’t then, aren’t now.”  
        Chiyoh said, “I don’t like this.”  
        “Neither do I.”  
        “Will you search again today?”  
        Will nodded, then rose to check on his captive and bring him provisions. Aubrey was startled awake by the sound of the door opening.  He cowered against the wall, chest heaving in half-conscious panic until Will said, “Wake up.”  
        He sat up straight, his eyes fixed on Will’s shoes. “Good m-morning.”  
        “Good morning.  Use the bathroom if you need to. Come back when you’re done.”  
        Will backed away from the door and let the other man pass, feeling like he was letting his dogs out for a run. Unlike his dogs, Aubrey returned promptly. Will gestured him back into the tower and said, “I’ve given you food and water. Have you done the same for Hannibal?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “Did you leave enough in case you needed to extend the time?”  
        Aubrey met his eyes, surprised. “Yes, I did. In case you hadn’t been willing to listen at first. Why would you want to extend it?”  
        “If I need more time to think things through.”  
        “Do you?”  
        “I have today and tomorrow to decide, don't I?”  
        Aubrey nodded. Will turned and left. Chiyoh was waiting for him outside the castle. She said, “My decision to protect him has overpowered my decision to respect him.”  
        “How do you feel about that?”  
        “Disappointed in myself.”  
        “Are you coming along because you doubt me?”  
        Chiyoh hesitated. “The search will be more thorough with two. Though, I don’t entirely understand why you are treating him so well.”  
        “I’m building rapport and trust. More can be accomplished with kindness than cruelty.”  
        Chiyoh still looked uncertain. Will continued, “Have you ever trained an animal?”  
        “No.”  
        “You reward the behaviors you want and ignore the ones you don’t. Positive reinforcement.”  
        “We don’t need him to behave. We only require one piece of information.”  
        “There’s more to it.  He expects an answer from me. He’ll know if I haven’t given it sincere thought, or if I’m wavering in my decision. If I don’t follow through on my half of the agreement, he won’t follow through on his.”          
        “If all goes well and Hannibal is returned unharmed, how will you reward him?”  
        Will did not have an answer.  
        They pored over the cabin and the surrounding woods together. Will crawled underneath the cabin to check for a hidden room, finding nothing. He did not rush to get back out into the light. He rested his chin on his hands and let his mind drift. His usual method of working a crime always started with the evidence found at the scene or a victim’s body. This time all he had was the perpetrator and what he knew about him.  Will closed his eyes. Aubrey had clearly been abused in his youth; he had admitted as much within minutes of confronting Will in the forest, but it would have been obvious to him anyway. Being locked in the larder had disturbed him. It was cold, dark, stone. It had the scent of earth. A mattress on the floor. _Are you alone? Oh, decidedly._ _Nobody knows I’m down here, except for one person. One person who holds all the power._  
        Will crawled out from under the cabin and found Chiyoh. “He’s definitely underground, somewhere nearby. Somewhere close enough to carry him. Aubrey took his time setting this up…months of hard work. He dug it by hand. He was careful. The soil he disturbed is likely grown over by now, and he’s hidden the access hatch. It will be almost impossible to find. He _wants_ to show me. To show me that he is capable of murder…but merciful, perhaps more merciful than I am. To make me question myself and my decisions, no matter what happens.  He is even willing to sacrifice his life to achieve this.”  
        “I need a shovel.”  
        “You might be digging for the rest of your life, Chiyoh.”  
        “I’ll take the car and go get a metal detector.”  
        “That’s a good idea. Where’s the closest city that would have one?”  
        “The capitol. About an hour and a half drive each way.”  
        When Chiyoh pulled away from the castle in the black sedan, Will felt an odd sense of relief coupled with fear. He was not sure that she trusted him, and this made him doubt himself. Will was sure that he wanted Hannibal back even more than she did, but he still did not know what to do about Aubrey.  Chiyoh’s question echoed in his mind… _how will you reward him?_ Will did not think that he deserved to die for what he had done, and he knew that Hannibal would very likely think the opposite. Will was sure that Aubrey had considered both viewpoints and deliberately positioned himself in between.            
        He returned to the castle, climbed to the tower, and opened the door. Aubrey was looking out of one of the windows. Will approached him slowly, stood beside him, and also gazed out at the view. Will asked, “What are my choices?”  
        “Leave, knowing that by your inaction, Hannibal will cease to be. Free him…and decide my fate.  Or…we could…”  
        Aubrey trailed off.  Will urged, “Could what?”  
        “We could kill him together.”  
        “I’m not looking for a protégé.”  
        “What about a partner?”  
        “I already have a partner.  You kidnapped him.”  
        Aubrey absentmindedly rubbed his bare wrist against the stone window ledge.  Will noticed that the skin was red.  “I’m sorry…it’s a horrible thing I’ve done, but I think I’ve done it for a good reason.”  
        “You’re trying to rescue me.”  
        Aubrey nodded.  “We can go home, Will…and if you still want to work —and I do think it’s your calling— we can work the crimes together, and on those occasions when the law fails, we can take our satisfaction.”  
        “You’re suggesting I trade one life of crime for another.”  
        “You said you enjoy killing.  If that’s something you need, then I accept it.”      
        “I also need Hannibal.  I don’t want him to die.”  
        “He doesn’t have to die.  He could be kept somewhere like where he was before.”  
        “The last time he was imprisoned he sent a serial killer to murder my family. We wouldn’t be safe from him.”  
        Will realized that he had just said _we_ in the sense of he and Aubrey as a unit. As if he were considering what the other man was suggesting. With a feeling of nauseating guilt that made him want to double over, it became clear to himself that he was. He gripped the window ledge, feeling like he was drifting from his body into a dream state. Aubrey was suddenly holding him by the shoulders. “Will?  Can you hear me?”  
        “Mmm hmm.”  
        “You were unresponsive for about three minutes. Just standing here, blinking and staring.”  
        “I may have had a partial seizure.”  
        “Do you take medicine?”  
        Will recalled Hannibal telling him about a certain pill he should take right away if he experienced an aura, in order to prevent a grand mal seizure.  “Yes.  It’s downstairs.”  
        “Where?”  
        “Hannibal’s bag…the black one.”  
        Aubrey guided him to the mattress and coaxed him into a horizontal position. “I’ll be right back. Don’t get up.”  
        He returned in under a minute and handed Will the bag.  Will rifled through it until he found the right medicine. Aubrey handed him a glass of water, and he took the pill. Aubrey looked at the the many bottles and vials of medicine.  “Are you ill?”  
        “I’m recovering from a relapse of encephalitis.”  
        “You trust Dr. Lecter to treat you, considering what happened last time?”  
        Will blinked and looked at him. Aubrey must have read every report. “His treatment is probably better than what I’d get at the hospital.  At least much more attentive.”  
        An odd fatigue was compelling him towards sleep, limbs growing heavier and heavier. He forced himself up into a seated position in an attempt to stay conscious. Aubrey was crouched near the foot of the mattress. “Sleep. Don’t worry…you’re safe with me.”  
        “You could have taken the key. Locked me in here.”  
        “What would that accomplish?”  
        Will supposed the question was rhetorical. “Come here, please. Next to me.”  
        He did so. Slowly, gently, Will rolled up Aubrey’s shirt sleeves. Aubrey was averting his gaze, anticipating judgment. His hands were trembling again. Will looked closely at the wounds along both inner wrists created by hours of abrasion. Where the skin was not rubbed raw it was covered in hundreds of thin white scars. Aubrey whispered, “I haven’t done that in a long time.”  
        “This is a stressful situation.”           
        Will rummaged in the medical bag and got some antibiotic ointment. He put on a pair of gloves and carefully spread it on the wounds, then wrapped his forearms in gauze and pulled his sleeves back down. Will took off the gloves, rolling them inside out per habit as a forensic investigator. Aubrey's trembling increased as Will took each hand in turn, checking for more self-inflicted damage. “Did you bang your wrists on the wall?” he asked, gently palpating the small bones there.  
        “No.”  
        “Are there any other wounds that need care?”  
        Aubrey smiled sadly. “Nothing you can put a bandage on.”  
        Will returned his smile. He asked, “Why did you join the FBI?”  
        “To understand and stop people like my father.”  
        “He hurt you?”  
        Aubrey nodded. He took a deep breath that was hard to let out. “And my m-mother. She was a gentle person. Didn’t do anything wrong, except choosing wrong. And he wasn’t always v-violent...it came on gradually, along with the delusions. It was winter, the winter I turned eight, when he took our shoes and coats. We couldn’t go nowhere— _anywhere_. He got it in his head that she had been unfaithful...that I was someone else's son. A demon. He...beat her to death. I guess some part of him couldn’t kill me. Some part. I thought I’d freeze to death in the basement…maybe it would have been better if I had…because things got really bad from there. He said I was unloveable except by him, that only he could ever t-touch me because he knew what I was. He called it love. Maybe I felt like it was sometimes. At first they didn’t want to let me watch the videos but I needed to see how ugly it was.”    
        “Who didn’t want to let you watch the videos?”  
        “The doctors…the psychologists.”  
        “How did you get out of the basement?”  
        “Some kid shot out a window by accident, while he was hunting. He looked in and saw me. Got the cops. Later, they found my m-mom’s teeth in the firepit. It turned out, when family and friends asked where we was— _were_ , he told them we'd left him. My sense of time from back then is distorted, but the v-videos were dated so I know it was three years.”  
        His words and breath came easier as he continued, “My mother and I, we used to, just me and her…we used to walk through the woods to this little cabin. It had one big window on the wall across from the bed, with this big tree right outside. We loved to go there when a storm was coming. We’d lie on the bed and look out the window, watching the rain and lightning and listening to the thunder and howling wind.  Sometimes that big tree would sway like it might fall over, but it never did. And the worse the storm got out there, the calmer I’d feel.”  
        Will pictured it, imagined the sensation of stillness and peace amid outer chaos. Aubrey could have camped in a tent, but he had chosen the dilapidated hunting cabin. “What happened to your father?”  
        “He got put away for life, but he didn’t live that long. He hung himself. I was scared for a long time that whatever was wrong with him was wrong with me. The doctors helped a lot, and eventually I was placed with a really nice family. We went camping all the time, fishing and hunting. They paid for my continuing therapy and school and everything.”  
        “Do you feel like you’re a part of their family?”  
        “I’m not sure I understand the idea of family.”  
        “I can relate to that. I had a wife and stepson...but it didn't feel real, somehow. I think I came close to understanding, once.”  
        Will closed his eyes for just an instant, and he was back in the kitchen at Hannibal’s place. _We couldn’t leave without you. Time did reverse. The teacup that I shattered dared come together. A place was made for Abigail in your world. A place was made for all of us, together._  
        “What happened?”  
        “I made a mistake.”  
        The mistake in the plan had been meeting with Freddie Lounds. Will’s mistake, as he had come to see it, was that he had been of two minds, unable to accept his true desire. “Is there any fixing it?” Aubrey asked.  
        “No, just regretting it.”  
        Aubrey reached out to comfort him, then seemed to think better of it, and pulled his hand back. Will took his hand and rested his face momentarily in the palm, then gently released it and stood up. Aubrey asked hesitantly, “You believe me, right?”  
        Will knew that being disbelieved was one of the main fears of the sexually abused. “I believe you. Thank you for trusting me. I'll be back tonight.”  
        Will left, closing the door behind him but not bothering to lock it.


	18. Le Rêve d'un Curieux

  
        The metal detector swept back and forth, back and forth, a metronome that Will’s imagination was using to compose a visual symphony of visceral thrills and horrors.  Scenes from Aubrey’s childhood interwove with visions of Hannibal trapped underground, a fantasy of taking Aubrey gently, lovingly, on the mattress in the tower entwined with the unfulfilled desire for Hannibal to fuck him hard, viciously, in a prison designed just for Will.  Every so often it felt like his heart skipped a beat as the metal detector buzzed, and like a wind-up toy he would stoop forward and dig where Chiyoh indicated.  Ten bullet casings in eleven hours, and a rusted part of a saw blade.  Will’s hands had begun to blister.  He was thankful for the pain.  
         _What the hell is wrong with me?_ he thought, gripping the shovel.    
        His mind generated a considerable list of responses, which Will scanned for the answer ‘unfaithful.’  He hoped to see some explanation next to the label, perhaps instructions on how to proceed.  Of course, there was nothing.  This was a part of himself he never knew existed.  He was very inexperienced —even more so than he had let on to Hannibal— in romantic relationships.  He had a hard enough time just being a person in his own right, let alone negotiating a relationship, let alone managing an attraction to someone other than his partner.    
        He thought back to when he had first met Hannibal.  It had not been like this, this warmth, this sudden feeling of attraction whether he liked it or not.  In fact, the doctor had irritated him at first, his mere presence a reminder of his own fragile mental state.  No, with Hannibal it had not been warmth, but a slow, inexorable, devastating magnetic pull.  He remembered when he had first become aware of it, the moment as clear as if he were there now, in the barn, pulling the trigger, immersed in the scent of straw and blood, his soul caught in Hannibal’s hand as it stopped the hammer from falling.  What had he said?  _With all my knowledge and intuition I could never predict you.  I can feed the caterpillar, and I can whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me._  
        Beyond Hannibal.  Will had not thought much about _beyond Hannibal_ , because he was inescapable.  Aubrey had shown him otherwise, even if just a glimpse.  Will was disturbed by this, but also grateful.  Will wanted his curiosity to go away.  He had never longed so desperately for a way to quell his imagination.  He wished he had some whiskey.  
        He gave up digging around one AM.  Chiyoh took the shovel and continued to search while he made his way back to the castle.  He took sleeping pills and was about to lie down when he remembered that he had told Aubrey he would return that evening.  He climbed the stairs to the tower.  Aubrey was awake, sitting on the mattress in the patch of moonlight.  “Hi, Will,” he said quietly.  
        Will had brought a lit lantern with him.  He knew he should leave before the medication kicked in, but instead he sat down with his back against the wall, placing the light between himself and the other man.  “I didn’t say this earlier…but I’m very sorry to hear about your childhood.  I don’t mean to be dismissive.  I tend to get entangled with other people’s emotions.”  
        Aubrey chuckled.  “You don’t say.”  
        After a moment, Will laughed, too, realizing there was no need to explain it.  He savored the relief of being understood.  The younger man said, “I don’t want you to imagine what it was like.  I don’t need you to feel my pain or anything like that.  You asked, so I told you.  So you might know me better.”  
        Will had already imagined it in graphic detail.  “Have you had…trouble with relationships?”  
        “Yeah.  Have you?”  
        “Putting it mildly.”  
        “I, uh…don’t know if it’s because of what happened or if it’s just my personality…or this thing we’ve g-got or don’t have.  I’ve done a lot of work learning to trust.  I forced myself to have sexual experiences…with kind, respectful, patient partners…until I could feel something other than fear and shame.  I learned what I like and don’t like.  But even still, it’s been difficult.  To be close to anyone…body and mind…in that way.”  
        “You want to be close?”  
        “Very much.”  
        “Do you ever feel guilty about your desires?”  
        “Sometimes.  Do you?”  
        Will nodded.  “What do you do about it?”  
        “I’ve come to understand that my guilt is largely unfounded.  But when I have done wrong, I try to learn from it, and not let myself be consumed by self loathing.  It leads to self-harm.  You saw.”  
        “You did that out of guilt for what you’ve done to Dr. Lecter?”  
        “No, what I’ve done— what I’m doing to you.  _You_ feel guilty for what you’re thinking of doing to Dr. Lecter.  Guilty for thinking he’s not an appropriate choice-”  
        “Choosing a stalker over him would be _appropriate_?”  
        Aubrey was sitting with his knees bent, and he drew them closer to his chest.  “If that's what I am, then no. But there's someone better, I’m sure of it.”  
        “I’m not.”  
        “You think it’s Dr. Lecter or nobody?”  
        “No, I’m not sure there’s a better choice than you.  Understanding and acceptance are rare…I don’t expect to meet another like you.  I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, trying to show me.  I think what you’ve done is wrong, but it’s certainly less wrong than what Hannibal has done.  What I’m saying is I don’t blame you.  I was angry at first.  I’m not angry now.  On a lot of levels, you're a more sensible choice than he is.”  
        Aubrey’s heart was hammering.  He wanted very badly to believe what he was hearing, but Will looked rather stoned; his half-lidded glassy eyes moved slowly as they tracked invisible objects around the room.  “Did you take something?”  
        “ _Mmm hmm._ Time for bed."  
        Will rose to his feet, turned towards the door, then turned back and lay down on the mattress.  Aubrey hesitated, but he thought it best to say, “Will, this isn’t your bed.”  
        Will’s eyes were closed.  He didn’t respond.  Aubrey gently shook his shoulder and said, “C’mon.  I’ll help you downstairs.”  
        The other man mumbled, “Good here.”  
        Aubrey watched his body relax by degrees as he sank into sleep.  Aubrey took off Will’s shoes and belt, then stretched out next to him and observed him in the lantern light.  It was dangerous to pretend, but he allowed it, shoving down his guilt.  If it were decided that he should be killed, he wanted at least one happy memory to focus on while dying, even if it were an illusion.  He edged as close as he could to Will without touching him, and slipped into a fantasy that it was just the two of them, that he was wanted, that he was loved.  
  
        For the first time, Will was not alone in the stone chapel.  There was someone warm and close beside him in the old wooden bed.  He reached his hand out and felt bare skin, smooth as living silk.  Delicately-freckled skin that was painted in bright patches of colored light from the stained glass window.  “What are you doing here?” Will whispered.  
        “You invited me,” said Aubrey, eyes placid and very green, jewel-like.  
        “Where’s Hannibal?”  
        “In the castle.”  
        “I thought he couldn’t go there.”  
        “He’s always there, no matter what he tells you.  It’s at the center of his mind.”  
        “I want to find him there.”  
        “He might hurt you.”  
        “Will you help me?”  
        Aubrey nodded without hesitation.  Suddenly they were clothed, standing in the wine cellar.  The human-insect hung before them, wings shining with candle light.  They stood still as the arrangement disassembled itself; the shattered pieces of glass flew out of the wings and came together as wine bottles, the rope unwove itself and the cadaver fell to the floor, life returning to his body as blood flowed back into the wound on his neck.  Time sped up then, years of the man in the cage whipped by within moments.  Bones and heaps of snail shells disappeared from the floor as if winked out of existence.  The man himself grew younger, less and less wretched, the muscles returning to his wasted frame as it uncurled from its bent posture.  Then the gate unlocked, the man walked out of it, and Will turned his head slightly to see Chiyoh, decades younger, brandishing her rifle, forcing the man into the cage for the first time.  Behind her was a teenaged Hannibal Lecter, closely watching the proceedings.  Time continued to reverse, but it began to slow, finally coming to a stop in the woods.  All was green and silent, the trees motionless for an instant, and then time began again at normal speed, and Will found himself walking along the logging path in the early light.        
        He caught sight of a young girl up ahead.  She was alone.  Will felt excitement stir in the pit of his stomach as he began to walk faster, closing in on his prey, the decision being made for him like an instinctual urge.  He drew closer and closer.  She turned to look at him, expression open and unassuming, innocent.  He reached out and grabbed her by the hair, pulled her easily to the ground.  She began to scream as Will ripped off her clothes, his arousal building as she struggled.  He suddenly felt arms wrap around him from behind, as if to comfort him.  He experienced a moment of double-vision, then felt himself being pulled backwards out of the mind of the killer.  “Will,” Aubrey said softly in his ear, “You don’t have to do that.  You don’t have to forget who you are.”  
        “That’s h-how I’ve always d-done it,” Will stammered between anguished sobs as he watched the man proceed with his attack.  
        “You can _see_ …understand…without losing yourself.”  
        He turned away from the horrible scene to look at Aubrey, who was watching what the man was doing, with a knowing expression.  Mischa’s cries had stopped.  Aubrey’s gaze suddenly shifted to a figure on the path.  An almost inhuman scream shattered the silence, rending the fabric of the dream into fragments.    
        Will awoke abruptly.  Real arms were around him and a voice was urging him to breathe deeply.  Will wanted it to be Hannibal but knew that it was not; the smell was wrong.  Not bad, per se, but different.  Aubrey smelled like sweat and a natural musk that reminded Will of apricots.  He breathed deeply.  No, it was not bad, though Will was sure his odd captive could benefit from a bath.  Though he really was not much of a captive anymore.  Will rolled onto his back, breaking Aubrey’s hold on him.  “Was I screaming?”  
        “Crying.”  
        “You helped me.  Thank you.”  
        “You’re welcome.”  
        Will sat up and saw his belt next to the mattress.  He picked it up, looked at Aubrey questioningly.  “I don’t remember all of last night.”  
        “We talked.  You fell asleep.”  
        Will saw that Aubrey’s muscles were tensed and his eyes were locked on the belt, as if he thought it might be used to hurt him.  Will put it on and asked, “Would you like to go outside?”  
        Aubrey smiled, and the tension evaporated.  “Yes, I would.  May I make you breakfast first?”  
        The omelette he created was not quite on par with Hannibal’s, but it satisfied.  Will did not realize that Aubrey had only cooked for one until the meal was served.  Will cajoled him to eat a few slices of toast and then they headed out into the day, wandering aimlessly at first.  They walked in an easy silence until Will asked, “Did you quit the FBI to come here?”  
        “No, I went on psych leave.”  
        “That’s not going to look good on your record.”  
        “Does that matter?”  
        “Do you intend on going back?”  
        “Not without you.”  
        “Are you working for Jack Crawford?”  
        “No.  I’m fairly certain he has no idea who I am.”  
        “Do you still want to be a profiler?”      
        “Not without you.”  
        Will laughed, but his eyes were sad.  “I dreamt we were recreating a crime.  I was in the mind of the killer, about to rape and murder a young girl…you pulled me out of it, reminded me who I was.”  
        “Do you often have dreams like that?”  
        “All the time, back when I was working.  It disgusted me, how gratifying the dreams could be while they were happening.  I’d awake to such crushing guilt over feeling that I had done those things and liked it.”  
        “That’s a terrible price to pay for catching criminals.”  
        “I really don’t know if I want to do it again.  Do you find that selfish?”  
        “Not if doing it damages you.  But I do think, with my help, it would hurt less.  What were you and Dr. Lecter planning to do, before I came along?”  
         _Kill and eat Bedelia Du Maurier._ “Travel.  Experience each other.”  
        “What sort of place would you call home?  I think you would need to live somewhere secluded.  Peaceful.”  
        “Somewhere like that, eventually.  I like the boat for now.”  
        “The boat?”  
        Will clammed up.  Discussing _Abigail_ felt too intimate.  Aubrey said, “I don’t mean to pry…I just want to fully understand your relationship with Dr. Lecter.”  
        “I’m still not sure I _fully_ understand it myself, or ever will.”  
        “Are you happy with him?”  
        “Yes.  More than I’ve ever been.”  
        That had been enough to get Alana to give up, and Will wondered if it would work again.  “That’s good.  We seldom realize what makes us happy.”  
        “Please, Aubrey.  Please show me where he is, then go home.  You could be happy, too, with the right person.”  
        “I’m sorry, but I can’t leave until you understand who it is you’ve chosen, and who you really are.”  
        They headed in the direction of the cabin.  They found Chiyoh in a patch of woods, still digging.  She stopped when she saw them and drew near.  Glaring at Aubrey, she asked, “Will you release him now?”  
        “At the end of the day.”  
        She swung the shovel at his shoulder.  He moved to defend himself, and the thick wooden shaft connected with his forearm.  He gasped in pain and stumbled backwards.  Chiyoh moved to hit him again.  Will grabbed the shovel.  “He can’t free Hannibal if he’s dead,” he said calmly.  “You’ve done your best.  Go get some sleep.”  
        Tears in her eyes, Chiyoh ran away.  Will turned his attention to Aubrey, who was holding his arm against his chest.  “Let me see.”  
        He held out his arm, wincing as he did so.  Will unwrapped the gauze bandages and pushed gently on the injured spot.  Aubrey drew his breath in sharply and said, “It’s broken."   
        “Come to the cabin.”  
        Aubrey followed him.  Once inside, he sat down in a chair, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back.  He began to take very deep slow breaths.  Will asked, “Do you have any painkillers?”  
        “Don’t worry about it.  I’m good with pain.”  
        “You need a doctor.”  
        Aubrey laughed.  “Know anyone?”  
        “Let him out.”  
        “Tonight.”  
        “Now.  Please.  So he can fix you up.”  
        Aubrey smiled.  “The perfect method to test the limits of your power over him.”  
        “I don’t want to stake your life on it, but you’re giving me no other choice.”  
        “What will you do with me, after I’m _fixed up?_ ”  
        “I need to talk with Hannibal about that.  I won’t let him hurt you.  I don’t want to betray either of you.”  
        “Betrayal implies friendship.”  
        “I think you and I both want what’s best for each other.”  
        “Friends don’t let friends date cannibals?”  
        Aubrey was still smiling.  It was disarming.  Will found himself smiling back. “Friends don’t give friends false hope.  I can’t deny that your offer is tempting.  But I can’t have that life and Hannibal, and I would rather have him.  And if you kill him…I will become who he was before he met me.”  
        Aubrey nodded his acceptance.  “Thank you for telling me the truth.  I can tell that a few more hours won’t make a difference.”  
        Clutching his arm to his chest, he crossed the cabin and pulled a long-sleeved shirt out of a duffel bag.  He tied the sleeves together to make a sling and threw it over his head, resting his broken arm inside.  Then he grabbed a coiled length of rope and headed outside.  Will followed him into the woods.  After about a quarter mile they arrived in a large area that had been cleared by loggers many years ago.  Stumps punctuated the forest floor, which was thickly carpeted with dead pine needles.  There was barely any living vegetation besides low scrubby bushes.  Aubrey walked purposefully through the stumps until he arrived in front of one that was especially large.  “Under there,” he said.  
        Will frowned.  Aubrey leaned down and pushed on the stump with his good arm.  Will was surprised to see it move slightly.  “Let me.”  
        He crouched down and pushed on the side of the stump.  It was lighter than he expected, hollowed out, and it slid aside to reveal a trapdoor that was locked with a simple metal bolt.  There was an anchor point beside the door where the rope could be tied.  Will took the rope from him and said, “I want you to go back to the cabin and wait there.”      
        Aubrey searched Will’s eyes, realizing that this was likely the last time he would be alone with him.  He tried to savor the moment, ignoring the aching loneliness that was creeping its way back.  Softly, he said, “I trust you.”  
      
   


	19. Au Lecteur

  
        Morphine agreed with Bedelia Du Maurier. It had begun with the creation of an alibi, but over the years she found herself giving into the craving when she felt particularly stressed. She never took much, just enough to soften the edges of reality.  
        The reality of living in a world where Hannibal Lecter was free to hunt her down necessitated a lot of softening. So, when Jack Crawford appeared at her door, she gazed at him for a long languid moment, wondering if he were a hallucination. “May I come in?” he asked, although refusing him was clearly not an option.  
        She opened the door wider and turned away. “How did you find me?”  
        “Interpol. Your dual citizenship prevents me from extraditing you, but I thought I’d come and chat. It’s only a matter of time before he finds you, too.”  
        “Getting right to the point. Is that your only leverage?”  
        “I think it’s sufficient. How’s it going, living in fear? Can you even call it living?”  
        She sighed. “I suppose you want me to help you catch him. You are unlikely to succeed, considering your track record.”  
        “Even so, I’m gonna try again.”  
        “Hubris is considered by some to be the foremost of the deadly sins.”  
        “Oh, it’s not pride that’s driving me.”  
        “Stubbornness, then.”  
        “That’s more like it. Does Hannibal know you’re also a French citizen?”  
        “I don’t believe I ever mentioned it. Would you care for a glass of wine?”  
        She proceeded to the kitchen, pondering the logistics of how to empty one of her morphine ampules into his wineglass unnoticed. “No, thank you,” came his sonorous voice from the other room.  
        Bedelia poured herself a glass and returned to face him. They sat down in unison in chairs facing each other. She took a long drink, then said, “If he knew my location, would he not have come for me already?”  
        “You know he likes to play with his food. Maybe he’s otherwise occupied. Maybe he’s dead. There have been no sightings, no crimes that fit the profile.”  
        “You think he’s alive.”  
        “Yes, I do.”  
        “And Will Graham.”  
        “Staying hopeful.”  
        “What do you expect from me? I have nothing to tell you.”  
        “I don’t want you to tell me anything. I want you to tell _her_.”  
        Jack called out, “You can come in now!”  
        A woman with curly red hair stepped lightly into the apartment, closing the door behind her. She crossed the room swiftly and held out her gloved hand to Bedelia.  “Freddie Lounds.”  
        Bedelia spared a glance at Freddie’s hand and took another sip of wine. Freddie withdrew her hand and set her tape recorder down on the coffee table. Bedelia said, “I won’t violate doctor-patient confidentiality.”  
        Jack said, “Your life is in danger, as well as the lives of others. I’d say that constitutes an exemption. You want him caught, don’t you?”  
        “You can't always get what you want.”  
        “I’m going to kill him this time.”  
        Bedelia’s eyes widened despite the opiates coursing through her body.  “No more Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane?”  
        “Nevermore.”  
        Bedelia smiled just slightly. “Do you have a plan?”  
        “Lure him to you, have snipers set up in adjacent buildings, take him out.”  
        “Is that by the book?”  
        “In a hostage situation.”  
        “That requires a hostage.”  
        “I won’t let him hurt you.”  
        Bedelia laughed. “Please leave.”  
        Freddie said, “If you don’t give us anything, I’ll write the story anyway. The article will run with a photograph that will identify your location. Of course, it won’t be an obvious clue…but Hannibal will pick up on it. I would rather not speculate in my writing, Dr. Du Maurier.”  
        “I’m sure you’d take to it like a duck to water.”    
        Jack said, “It would be better if it was in your words.”  
        Bedelia was tired. As deeply as she resented being a part of this scheme, as certain as she was that it was doomed to fail, she would rather maintain the scant control she still had. At least if she did the interview she could convey a sense of respect; she had no idea what sort of inflammatory garbage Freddie would concoct. She was certain that Hannibal would recognize the trap, and maybe that would offer some protection, however temporary. Reluctantly, she said, “Let’s get this over with.”  
        Freddie hit the _Record_ button.  
  
  
  
        Hannibal heard a scraping noise from the ceiling. He switched off the lantern. From the table next to the bed he picked up the weapon he had made over the course of the past two days by rubbing the butterknife against dampened concrete until he had honed a razor-sharp edge. He had ripped the thermal shirt into strips and woven them tightly to create a grip for the handle. It was not perfect, but it was better than the average prison shiv and would get the job done.    
        As the trapdoor in the ceiling swung open Hannibal stepped back into the shadows. He stood perfectly still and waited. The square of light was blindingly bright, and he saw a silhouetted figure. Something fell down into the bunker; for a moment it looked like a stream of gasoline, but it was a rope. “Hannibal?”  
        It was Will’s voice. Hannibal did not move. Will said his name again, louder this time. When there was no response, he climbed down and stood in the shaft of light. Hannibal was behind him, and he circled him slowly in a wide arc, then approached from the front. When Will saw him, his breath caught. “Oh, god, you’re okay.”  
        Will stepped forward and embraced him with a fervor that surprised Hannibal. Hannibal held him close, detecting a stranger’s scent on him, someone else’s sweat. His fingers twitched on the knife. “You said you created something for me here. Is this it?”  
        Will pulled back. “You think I did this?”  
        “Items in this room forced me to consider it.”  
        “This is the work of someone who knows a lot about us. Let’s get you out of here.”  
        He climbed up the rope. Hannibal slipped the knife into his jacket pocket, put his shoes on, and followed close behind. The woods were silent save for the gentle rustling of leaves. Will hugged him again, more carefully this time, and asked, “Did he hurt you?”  
        “No. Who is he?”  
        “He’s…a lot like me. That’s why he’s here. He thinks he and I could have a connection. A healthier connection than what you and I have.”  
        “Do you find him healthy?”  
        “He’s fixated on me, but he’s not delusional. This plan he enacted could be considered less than sane, yet his motivation is sound.”  
        “What did he demand of you?”  
        “Only that I take some time to consider going on without you. I considered it, and true to his word, he released you.”  
        “My imprisonment was neither to coerce you nor torture me, but to offer you a way out. Did you truly consider taking it?”  
        “I did, and was reminded that any scenario where you’re locked up or worse is intolerable to me.”  
        Hannibal stroked his cheek. “I hope you could still be happy after my death.”  
        “Please, let’s not talk about that.”  
        The doctor studied him closely. “Missed sleep and missed meals. The last few days weren’t easy, and your uneasiness persists.”  
        “I don’t want you to kill him.”  
        “You’d prefer to do it?”  
        Will hesitated, then nodded. “If and when it’s necessary. He could be useful to us. He’s FBI. A former student.”  
        Hannibal tilted his head, considering the possibility that Will’s judgment was impaired due to his recent illness. “You seem rather sure he hasn’t set a trap for both of us.”  
        “He wants me to come willingly. He wouldn’t take my choices away.”  
        “Where is he?”  
        “Follow me.”  
        Hannibal could smell Will’s rising fear as he led the way to the cabin. Will entered first, holding the door for the doctor, who took a moment to size up the man they found within. He was standing with good posture and held his head in a neutral position, neither looking up shyly from beneath his brow nor raising his chin in contempt. His expression was guarded but keen and intelligent. His arm was in an improvised sling but despite his sheen of sweat he did not appear acutely distressed. He met Hannibal’s gaze and said, “Dr. Lecter, for what it’s worth, I apologize for locking you in th-that place.”  
        “Good manners are always worth something, Mr…?”  
        “Winston. Aubrey Winston.”  
        Will exhaled slightly; it was not quite a laugh. He wondered if he had subconsciously been reminded of Aubrey when he had given the name _Winston_ to a stray dog with reddish speckled fur, or if it was just a coincidence. He also wondered why he had not thought to ask for Aubrey’s full name. Hannibal asked, “May I please see your FBI identification card?”  
        Aubrey got his wallet and showed him the card. The doctor said, “And the driver’s license, if you have one.”  
        Aubrey showed him that, as well. Hannibal was satisfied. He said, “I understand that you’ve done this out of concern for Will. I also have his best interests in mind. May I call you Aubrey?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “Are you injured?”  
        “A beautiful Japanese woman hit me with a shovel.”  
        Hannibal smirked. Will asked, “Would you please take a look at it?”  
        Hannibal gestured for Aubrey to take a seat at the table. He took off the sling and rolled up the shirt sleeve, noting that the man’s scent was definitely what he had smelled on Will. He thought of the shiv in his pocket, how easy it would be to slit Aubrey’s throat. The younger man was even tilting his head away just slightly, as if offering his carotid artery. Hannibal gently brushed his fingertips against Aubrey’s, causing him to twitch slightly in fear. “Do you feel that?”      
        “Yes.”  
        “Good.”  
        He felt along the ulna to the swollen spot, which he pushed on just hard enough for diagnostic purposes. Aubrey drew in his breath and held it. Hannibal said, “I’ll reduce the fracture…set the bone. I recommend a nerve block to numb your arm.”  
        “Just go ahead.”      
        “There’s no need for this to hurt.”  
        “Yes, there is.”  
        Hannibal looked at the scabbing rub-marks on Aubrey’s arm and the multitudes of old self-inflicted scars. “Just because you’re no stranger to pain doesn’t mean you should court it.”  
        Hannibal glanced at Will, catching his look of surprise. Though he hated to pass up an opportunity to exact a measure of revenge, right now he found it more important to demonstrate restraint in order to reassure his partner. “I can handle it,” Aubrey said.  
        Will said, “No. Get up. We’re going to the castle.”  
        Aubrey lowered his gaze to the floor and stood up. Hannibal was intrigued by the obedience with which he responded to Will’s order, which was delivered with an uncharacteristically firm tone. Aubrey put the sling back on, a slight blush spreading across his face.  
        The three of them walked side by side on the path to Lecter Castle, with Will in the middle and Aubrey lagging just slightly behind. _Heeling like a dog_ , thought Hannibal, his mind beginning to explore the possibilities of what could be done with Mr. Winston.  
        After three days in the bunker, Hannibal felt far less anxious about what awaited him in his childhood home. Surrounded by his natal soil, it had become increasingly difficult to discipline his mind; twists and turns in his memory palace had conspired to bring him close to the wine cellar and the figure that dwelt there, coaxing him along a dark tract that he assiduously avoided by habit. Memories of his sister flickered like fireflies in the gloom, luring him with their sweetness. As the long dark days crawled by it became harder and harder to resist her reaching hands, her joyous laughter, the weight of her pure affection. He gave up out of sheer exhaustion, in the penumbra between sleep and wake. It hurt as deeply as it ever had, his sole comfort being that he was certain nobody could hear his cries. Gradually, the pain from which he had so long divorced himself began to crystallize into something less agonizing, something knowable. Mischa took his hand, painted it red, and pressed it to the edge of the fountain. She washed his palm clean, kissed him, and then she was gone.  
        Hannibal supposed that he had Aubrey to thank for the unexpectedly therapeutic experience, which now allowed him to enter the castle with only mild trepidation.  
        Chiyoh was extremely happy to see him, though she did not hug him as Will had. She appeared unsettled by Aubrey’s continued presence, but made no comment on the matter. She asked Hannibal if there was anything she could do, and he sent her off to the village to procure a certain species of wild mushroom.  
        Hannibal got his large bag of medical supplies and set it on the dining room table, pulling out a device that resembled a bulky outdated laptop. “What is that?” Will asked as Hannibal flipped it open and turned it on.  
        “Ultrasound machine. Useful for diagnosis and surgery. Aubrey, please take off your shirt and lie down on the table.”  
        Aubrey obeyed, revealing a burn in the shape of a cross on his chest. Will visibly flinched. Aubrey said, “An attempt to drive the demon out of me.”  
        Hannibal asked, “Did you do that yourself?”  
        “Some of my father’s work. He put the crucifix in the wood stove, waited ’til Jesus was glowing. I’m glad he only did it once…probably because it wasn’t effective, in his estimation.”  
        “Do you think you deserved it?”  
        “No. I was a kid. He was insane.”  
        Hannibal donned gloves and used an alcohol swab to clean a patch of skin just beneath Aubrey’s clavicle. “I’ve also been branded. As livestock. Though I certainly did something to deserve it.”  
        Aubrey looked him in the eyes. Hannibal thought he appeared appropriately frightened, but he also saw a hint of the empathy that he found so beautiful in Will.  
        He filled a large syringe with anesthetic and held it in one hand while directing the ultrasound with the other. He looked at the monitor, moving the soundhead until he had a clear view of the brachial nerve plexus, and carefully inserted the needle. A slip of the wrist could send anesthetic into the bloodstream instead of around the nerves and quite possibly kill his patient. He did not think that he could get away with such an ‘accident’ just yet. He slowly pushed the plunger, then withdrew the syringe. “Give that a few minutes to start working fully. Sit up, if you’d like.”  
        Aubrey moved to a chair, absentmindedly rubbing the scar on his chest. Hannibal asked, “Have you considered surgical revision?”  
        Aubrey nodded. “I hate it…but maybe I need a reminder.”  
        “Of what?”  
        “Surviving a monster.”  
        “Many label me a monster. Will, too, by association. Yet, you came to us.”  
        “I came for Will.”  
        “If you really believed it best for Will to go on without me, you would have killed me. Something held you back. Doubt of your convictions, perhaps.”  
        “It’s equally as difficult to know one’s own mind as it is to know another’s…but I have at least one unshakeable conviction about you, Dr. Lecter, and it is that you are exceptionally dangerous…due as much to your brilliance as your brutality. The word _monster_ doesn’t do you justice.”  
        Aubrey was still looking up at him, making strong eye contact, but Hannibal did not find his gaze confrontational. Hannibal pulled a chair up next to the younger man and pressed again on the site of the fracture. “Feel that?”  
        Aubrey shook his head. Hannibal grasped the ulna at either end, at the wrist and elbow, and began to pull in opposite directions very slowly and with gradually increasing force. It took a few minutes for the muscles to relax enough to allow the broken ends of the bone to be realigned. The doctor guided it into place, then said, “Done.”  
        “That’s it?” asked Will.  
        “Far less dramatic than how it’s portrayed on television.”  
        Hannibal carefully positioned Aubrey's arm with the elbow flexed to ninety degrees and applied a splint. As he secured it with medical tape, he said, “I saw your compound bow in the cabin. You prefer the bow to the rifle?”  
        “The rifle feels like an unfair advantage.”  
        “You shot _me_ with it.”  
        “I wasn’t trying to kill you.”  
        “What do you feel when you kill?”  
        “Excitement. Sadness. Reverence. What do you feel?”  
        “Hungry, for the most part. It varies.”  
        Hannibal finished with the splint and rummaged in the bag for a better sling, which he adjusted for his patient. He said, “There will be no bowhunting for you for a while, not with this fracture. Who’s going to keep you fed?”  
        “I’ve got supplies at the cabin.”  
        “That won’t do. You must join us for dinner.”  
        Hannibal stood up before Aubrey could answer and added, “Chiyoh will return shortly. Why don’t we” —Hannibal flicked his eyes over Aubrey’s body from head to foot— “clean up, and I’ll see you both in an hour. That splint can get wet. You may borrow any of my clothes.”  
        Hannibal was stepping through the threshold when Aubrey shouted, “Wait!”  
        The doctor spun around. Aubrey stared up at him with wide eyes, startled, perhaps, by the speed with which the older man moved. Aubrey’s face turned scarlet. He said, “Um. I…did…did Will tell you about his partial seizure?”  
        Aubrey glanced at Will, then back at the doctor. Hannibal glanced at Will, then back at Aubrey. “Yes, he did.”  
        “Oh. Good. Just making sure.”  
        Hannibal smiled, and was shocked to find it genuine. He quickly turned and strode down the hallway. He turned a corner, and instead of continuing to the kitchen, he climbed the staircase to the second story. As he crept along the hallway, he heard Will and Aubrey approaching. He ducked into a darkened alcove and waited. Will entered one of the bedrooms and came out a minute later with Hannibal’s most understated suit. Will also handed Aubrey a shirt and tie; Hannibal was too far away to see if it matched or not. He supposed he would find out at dinner. Will said, “There’s a bathroom down the hall. See you in an hour.”  
        Aubrey lingered as if he had a question, then nodded and proceeded down the hall. Will watched him for a moment, then entered the bedroom, closing the door behind him. Hannibal stepped quietly to the door. He listened, and after a minute heard the distant noise of a shower curtain being pulled back. He opened the door and swept through the bedroom into the en suite bathroom. Will was about to step into the shower, and he started violently when he caught sight of Hannibal. “I thought you were in the kitchen.”  
        Hannibal shrugged, then stripped. He got into the shower behind Will. Will said, “I didn’t tell you about the seizure.”  
        “Must have slipped your mind.”  
        Hannibal nuzzled his neck, scenting him deeply before the water washed away any evidence he might find. His skin smelled like it usually did, his unique aroma; the other man’s scent was fainter than it had been on Will’s clothes. The _outside_ of his clothes. Hannibal supposed that he was capable of jealous rage, though he had never murdered specifically for that reason. The closest he had come was sending Dolarhyde after Will’s family. Hannibal recalled how he had felt then, and it was not jealousy, _per se_ , but a feeling of righteousness in claiming what was his. Hannibal had no doubt that Will was his. He also had no doubt that Will knew it, too. His heart and mind were what Hannibal valued most. He wanted to pleasure his body, nourish it, and protect it from harm, but he did not mind if Will wanted to satisfy a sexual desire with someone else from time to time, with Hannibal’s approval, should the ideal scenario present itself.  
        If, however, he found that Will had been raped…Hannibal’s mind clenched against the thought, not wanting to envision tortures he was not allowed to inflict. He had agreed that Will would kill Aubrey, and he intended to honor that agreement. In fact, he anticipated the thrill of watching him do it.  
        Hannibal asked gently, “Why do your clothes smell like him?”  
        “I’ve been keeping him locked in the tower. I sat on his bed a few times while we talked.”  
        Hannibal took the soap and began to wash Will’s back with long massaging strokes. “I see.”  
        Will leaned his head back so it was resting on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal knew just how to touch him to elicit a desired reaction, and right now what he wanted was to soothe and relax. They washed each other’s hair, then got out of the shower. They shaved side by side, dressed facing each other almost like a mirror image, then descended to the kitchen.  
        Hannibal was glad that he had allowed Chiyoh to modernize certain features of the castle, despite his resistance to her idea that he should sell the place. He knew that the kitchen, like the bedrooms and bathrooms, would be up to his standards, but Chiyoh had done an excellent job, making sure the original architecture was preserved while incorporating the very best appliances. Hannibal began to gather ingredients. He said, “There's some wine in the cellar…will you please choose two bottles?”  
        Will nodded. He grabbed a box of matches from the great stone hearth and left the kitchen. Hannibal began to chop vegetables, idly wondering what Will was doing with the matches. Will returned and set the bottles on the counter next to Hannibal, then stilled the hand holding the knife. “Please, come and see.”  
        The doctor put the knife down and took Will’s hand. He knew he was ready to face it, but a part of him still screamed that it was not safe, that he might lose control. Will squeezed his hand. Hannibal looked into his grey-blue eyes and let himself be led downstairs.  
        As he took in what his lover had done for him, his eyes slowly welled up with tears. “Will, this is…”  
        It was against Hannibal’s nature to begin a sentence without knowing how to finish it, yet he suddenly found himself lost for words. Will asked, “Do you like it?”  
        Hannibal nodded and pulled him close. “Beyond my ability to articulate. Thank you.”  
        After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, Hannibal led the way back upstairs, feeling lighter, feeling grateful. It seemed odd that Aubrey deserved part of the credit. Hannibal still did not know quite what to do with that.  
        Chiyoh returned with the mushrooms. Hannibal proceeded with preparing a meal comprised of typically Lithuanian dishes that he recalled from his early youth. Will set the table with four place settings. Just as the doctor was transferring the food into serving dishes, Aubrey appeared in the doorway. He had cleaned up exceedingly well. He had not been able to get the suit jacket over his splint, so he wore it unbuttoned and draped over his shoulder like a cloak, but this did not make him appear any less elegant. His hair, washed and arranged neatly, was a few shades lighter, the color of cinnamon. His shaved face looked much younger; he could possibly pass for nineteen or twenty, belied only by the maturity of his expression, which at the moment appeared equal parts curious and fearful. A winning combination, in Hannibal’s opinion. The doctor said, “Perfect timing.”  
        Hannibal served the food while Will poured the wine. When all were seated, Hannibal raised his glass and said, “To you, Aubrey.”  
        Hannibal savored the surprised faces of everyone at the table. He continued, “Though what you did to me was highly unpleasant, it forced me to confront certain bad memories that I had been avoiding. I can’t deny that I’m thankful for that, and your good intentions towards Will.”  
        Hannibal smelled his wine and took a sip. The rest followed suit, though Chiyoh hesitated slightly. She said, “He could have killed you, Hannibal.”  
        “True, but he didn’t.”  
        “Why do you tolerate dangerous people?”  
        “They make such stimulating company. You are also dangerous, Chiyoh…not just with your rifle, but shovels, too, I hear.”  
        Will said, smiling, “Don’t forget the time you pushed me off a train.”  
        Chiyoh opened her mouth as if to object, but then seemed to think better of it. Hannibal watched Aubrey taste the wine. The younger man stared at his glass and made a very small involuntary noise of pleasure. Hannibal was glad to witness this sign that their guest had a sensuous -and therefore corruptible- nature. It was clear from the way he looked at Will that he desired him. Will would look at him only briefly, as if wary of being caught admiring another man, but this only made it more apparent that the attraction was mutual. Far from angering Hannibal, he saw it as an opportunity.  
      
   


	20. Horreur sympathique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am a monster, devouring time and expectations. My apologies.

  
        After dinner there was more wine, and music, as usual. Hannibal chose to play the piano instead of his favored harpsichord, as if sensing that the mood of the evening would be eased by the softer sound. Will felt that he would be remiss to take Hannibal’s friendly behavior towards Aubrey at face value, but he was fairly sure that the doctor was not about to kill their dinner guest. Aubrey’s head was tilted slightly as he listened to the music, clearly savoring it as much as he had the food and what was now his fourth glass of wine. His gaze was unfocused and he was smiling slightly. Will thought it was remarkable that he could enjoy the offerings of a man he considered _exceptionally dangerous_. Will could not help but feel a certain affinity.  
        When Hannibal finished playing, the FBI agent quietly said, “Bravo.”  
        Hannibal smiled. “Do you play?”  
        “Not the piano. Some fiddle— _v-violin_.”  
        “ _Fiddle_ isn’t a dirty word, Aubrey.”  
        Aubrey took a long sip of wine. Hannibal continued, “Do you have Appalachian heritage?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “Your parents, from a tight-knit community?”  
        “They distanced themselves some, after they got married. I think mostly because my father didn’t like to be around people.”  
        “Did he teach you to play?”  
        “My mother taught me. Old-time songs. Later, my adoptive family got me to go to school by telling me I could learn music there. But when I called it a fiddle at school it didn’t go over well.”  
        “The other students made assumptions about you? Called you rude names?”  
        Aubrey nodded. “I learned to read music and was in the orchestra…I got good grades and shed my accent…but it didn’t help much. Being called names wasn’t so bad, but one day after school two boys caught me and stomped on my mother’s fiddle. That…that hurt. It was the only thing I had of hers…he burned everything else. She hid it in the cabin.”  
        Will watched Hannibal’s face, wondering if the doctor empathized at all with the younger man. Will had not shared any of the personal information that Aubrey had told him, but Hannibal was, of course, highly adept at filling in the blanks. Hannibal asked, “Did you want to hurt those boys?”  
        “Oh, yes.”  
        “Did you?”  
        “No.”  
        “Why not?”  
        “I wanted to be good. Not like my father. I didn’t want my parents to regret adopting me.”  
        “Is a person’s worth determined by good behavior?”  
        “Can it be wrong to be good?”  
        “If being good is a betrayal of your nature. It seems you are now more capable of behaving honestly, if burying me alive is any indication.”  
        Aubrey finished his wine. Hannibal said, “I would love to hear your mother’s songs. Perhaps when your arm heals.”  
        “I haven’t played since back then.”  
        “That’s a shame. Did you enjoy the orchestra?”  
        “It was nice to be part of something. They wanted me to sit up front, but I felt exposed…too close to the audience. So I sat in the back with the weakest of the seconds. I liked helping them get stronger.”  
        “Helping the weak. I wonder if that’s part of what drew you to law enforcement. You want to help Will…do you think he’s weak?”  
        Aubrey looked at Will. “I think Will is vulnerable, and you couldn’t help but take advantage. You saw someone who had the potential to understand and accept you, and you convinced him that he’s like you.”  
        Will asked, “Isn’t that what you’re trying to do?”  
        Pain flashed across Aubrey’s face. Hannibal said, “Everybody wants understanding and acceptance. I’m vulnerable, too, when it comes to Will, and he has taken advantage of that. He’s made me more like him…stirred in me a compassion I didn’t know was possible. I feel very lucky to have him in my life.”  
        Aubrey said, “You are.”  
        Hannibal rose and slowly approached the auburn-haired man, who straightened his posture and subtly braced himself. They regarded each other for so long that Will began to get nervous. Dr. Lecter said, “It’s too bad about your arm. It’s been so long since I’ve played a duet.”  
        Aubrey’s eyes widened. “I haven’t practiced in twenty years, there’s no w-way I could hold my own.”  
        “You underestimate yourself.”  
        He took the empty wine glass from Aubrey’s hand. He looked at Will and said, “I think it’s time for bed. Will, would you please escort our guest to one of the bedrooms?”  
        Will did not realize how exhausted he was until he stood up. He gestured for Aubrey to follow him and they proceeded upstairs. Will saw that Hannibal was encouraging them to be alone together, though the reason currently eluded him. They entered one of the guest rooms. The younger man sat on the edge of the bed and said, “I didn’t expect…”  
        Will waited for him to finish, but when he did not, offered, “To still be alive?”  
        Aubrey nodded, looking at the floor, nervously picking at the shirt sleeve covering the splint. Will was struck by how shy his body language was around him in comparison to how he held himself in front of Hannibal; he had apparently learned early on when it was and was not safe to show vulnerability. Will had never quite achieved that skill. He said, “Maybe he will let me have a friend.”  
        Aubrey looked up at him, as if to check if he meant it. Will tried to hold his gaze —the other man’s eyes were uncommonly appealing to him— but Aubrey looked away quickly. “I hope so. I had a…good time tonight. Is he always…like that?”  
        “Yeah. Right up until the moment he tries to kill you. And even then he’s polite about it, considering.”  
        “Well…there’s that, at least.”  
        “Hannibal isn’t going to hurt you. If anyone does it’s going to be me, and it isn’t my design— my intent to do so.”  
        Aubrey appeared confused, but he nodded again. Will said, “I’ll be right back.”          
        He got two pain pills from Hannibal’s medical bag, then returned to Aubrey and placed them on the nightstand. “For your arm. Goodnight.”  
        “Thank you. Goodnight.”  
        Will closed the door gently behind him. He felt oddly protective of Aubrey, responsible for his fate. The situation was far from normal, but he had a very flimsy grasp on what _normal_ was, anyway. He went to his bedroom, took off all his clothes, and got into bed. The next thing he was aware of was the sun shining on his face and the warm presence of someone beside him. He sat upright and saw Hannibal propped against the pillows, wearing striped pajamas, holding an iPad. The device was almost anachronistic in his hands; seeing him do something so mainstream somehow made him appear more unusual by contrast. Will said, “I tried to stay awake for you. Guess I drifted off.”  
        “I’ll help you find your moorings.”  
        Hannibal put the iPad aside, leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. A thrill of intense desire pooled in Will’s belly. He forced himself out of bed, brushed his teeth, used the toilet, and washed thoroughly. Although it had only been a few days since they had last had sex it felt like far longer than that, and Will’s mind had been dallying with someone else. Will suspected that his feelings towards Aubrey could result in something deeper than a mere dalliance if allowed to grow, and he cleaned himself now as if to wash those thoughts away and return to Hannibal as pure as possible.  
        He got back into bed, where he made quick work of the striped pajamas, hungry for the feeling, smell, and taste of the other’s body. He teased Hannibal with lazy strokes of his tongue until the doctor finally took over and flipped him face down. Hannibal opened the drawer of the nightstand and took out a small bottle. Will drew in his breath with a shudder of anticipation.  
        The action of Hannibal’s skilled slick fingers soon had him aching for more. Hannibal was patient as usual, waiting until Will was beyond ready before he fucked him, until he was faintly whimpering and begging _please_ under his breath. Only then did he insinuate himself, intensifying each thrust with a snap of his hips. Will felt Hannibal gradually allowing more and more of his body weight to press down into his back until he was pinned to the mattress. The sensation of total surrender increased his excitement to a fever pitch; he could not get away from Hannibal even if he wanted to. He cried out in pleasure as he felt teeth clamp down on the nape of his neck. Heat seemed to pour from the spot, plunging down his spine and then up between his legs, erupting in a shared climax. His vision dimmed as if he were slipping towards unconsciousness, and when it returned the sheets appeared to be covered in blood. Will closed his eyes against the hallucination.  
        Hannibal rolled them onto their side, his breathing quickly normalizing. Will’s took far longer. When he eventually opened his eyes, he saw that the sheets were spotless white. He turned and looked at Hannibal; his image was not distorted. Will admired the slight flush to his fine skin glossed with sweat, the beautiful shape of his body, but most of all the unrivaled depth behind his eyes, deepening still, always a mystery and a surprise. “You’ve never done that before.”  
        “Did I hurt you?”  
        “No. Not at all.”  
        Hannibal’s lips curled up at the corners. He looked impish, like a child with a secret. “Let’s go to France.”  
        “Back the way we came? Okay. Any particular reason?”  
        Hannibal reached over and grabbed the iPad, propping it up so they could look at it together. He scrolled to the top of the _Tattlecrime.com_ article. The headline read: _LECTER’S SHRINK TELLS ALL_. Beneath was a photo of Bedelia Du Maurier looking even more dour than usual. Will could see genuine fear beneath the cold exterior. Hannibal said, “She’s in Marseille.”  
        Will squinted at the picture. Bedelia was centered in the shot with a window beside her. The view from the window was slightly blurred, the buildings indistinct, but he did not doubt Hannibal’s encyclopedic knowledge of European architecture. “Does she really _tell all?_ ”  
        “She mentions that I suffered a tragic loss as a youth, but says nothing disrespectful. They needed new information and that’s better than a lie. It proves they really interviewed her.”  
        “Why do you want to eat her? In a way, she seems loyal to you.”  
        “As my psychiatrist she is quite loyal. She knows a lot about me, but we aren’t intimate. She isn’t you.”  
        Will blinked. “It’s not her fault she isn’t me.”  
        “No, but that doesn’t change it. She doesn’t approve of me, and won’t hesitate to deprive us of our freedom.”  
        Will looked at the article again. “Jack is behind this. It’s similar to our plan to draw out Dolarhyde, except then we filled it with insults. I think he’d want to be more subtle with you. But it’s still obvious.”  
        “A trap.”  
        “Definitely.”  
        “The photograph was taken near the port.”  
        “Hannibal…if they catch us…”  
        “All of the previous traps have failed.”  
        “Is it worth the risk?”  
        “I can resist everything except temptation.”  
        “No quotes before breakfast, please. Shall I ask Aubrey to scrape something together? He makes a decent omelette.”  
        That was sufficient to distract the doctor. He scowled slightly, threw back the covers, and leapt out of bed.  
        Chiyoh had been to the market and the kitchen was fully stocked. It actually appeared _over_ -stocked, Will thought as he retrieved ingredients at Hannibal’s request. Just as the doctor was finishing setting the table for four, Chiyoh entered the kitchen and bowed. “Good morning,” Hannibal said.  
        She stepped to the table and picked up a plate. “I no longer…” she began, then trailed off, as if losing her nerve.  
        “You no longer want to eat at my table.”  
        “I no longer want to be dangerous.”  
        She turned and put the plate away in its proper place in the cupboard. When she turned back she said more confidently, “I want to go to Japan. I need to understand who I am, outside of you. May I please have your permission?”  
        “Will you come back?”  
        “No.”  
        “You have my permission.”  
        She smiled wistfully, then bowed again to both Hannibal and Will. “Thank you. Be gentle with each other, _nakama. Sayōnara_.”  
        She stepped out, leaving her rifle case by the door. Hannibal proceeded with making breakfast. If he was feeling anything about Chiyoh’s sudden departure, Will could not tell from his appearance. “You’ve known her for such a long time,” he led.  
        “This will make things considerably more difficult.”  
        “What?”  
        “We won’t be able to rely on her skills. I’m sure Jack will use a team.”  
        “We haven’t decided to go to Marseille.”  
        “You said okay.”  
        “That was before I saw the article.”  
        Hannibal turned to look at him. The fact that he was holding a knife was incidental, but Will felt a whisper of true fear. Will began to pace. Hannibal said, “You made me a promise.”  
        “I’m not trying to get out of it. It’s just… _so_ dangerous.”  
        “This will end the danger. Jack won’t walk away this time.”  
        Will felt his mouth form the word _oh_ , but no sound came out. He would be lying to himself if he pretended that he had never thought about killing Jack Crawford; he had even had a vivid fantasy of murdering him with Hannibal. The reality of committing such an act would be far uglier. Will abruptly realized that Hannibal was staring at him. The doctor said, “Jack drove you to insanity.”  
        “So did you!”  
        “Jack was using you…I was trying to free you.”  
        “If I recall correctly —though god knows if I can due to the brain damage you allowed to continue— you were trying to frame me.”  
        “If I thought you were in any serious danger of long-term side effects-”  
        “I’ve lost _months_ of time! I’m having seizures! I still hallucinate.”  
        “You do?”  
        Will nodded. He was trembling badly and beginning to sweat through his clothes. He stopped pacing and leaned against the table, tightly crossing his arms in front of his chest in an attempt to calm himself. Hannibal put down the knife and wiped his hands on his apron. He approached Will slowly, leaned against the table next to him, and said, “I wish I’d known. It may only require an adjustment to your medication. It’s likely that the hallucinations are temporal lobe seizures.”  
        “Not psychosis?”  
        Hannibal gently rubbed his back. “No. It will be all right. We will manage this. Thank you for telling me. Why were you keeping it to yourself?”  
        “I expected it to stop once the encephalitis was under control. When it didn’t…I thought I must really be insane. A liability, and you wouldn’t want me anymore.”  
        Hannibal put his arm around Will’s waist and pulled him tightly to his side. “I’ve wanted you every day, since the day I met you.”  
        Will was surprised. “Since the day you met me?”  
        “When you told me why you hated eye contact, while looking into my eyes.”  
        Will smiled. “You are trying to charm me.”  
        “Is it working?”  
        Will laughed. “Even with Jack gone, the FBI wouldn’t stop pursuing you.”  
        “Of course not, but who knows me there, better than him?”  
        “Aubrey.”  
        “Would he help us?”  
        “Help kill Jack? I don’t think so.”  
        “Would he betray us?”  
        “You and I are inextricably entwined. Hurting one of us hurts the other.”  
        “I think he’ll do whatever you ask.”


	21. Bénédiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This probably should have been part of the last chapter but I took too long to write it. I do apologize for how slow the updates are but they will keep coming. The story is not quite done, but nearing completion. I will not leave it incomplete. Thank you for reading, my lovely fellow Fannibals.

        Hannibal could see Will struggling with what he surmised was a moral dilemma. He loved watching his unique mind twist and turn, loved the unpredictability of his decisions. Will said, “I don’t want to ask him. He’s not a means to an end.”  
        “I think you’ve got a crush.”  
        Will glared at him; a warning look. Hannibal stared back, calling his bluff. Will looked away. “Not wanting to use him like that doesn’t mean I have a crush.”  
        “It means he means something to you. Does he appeal to you in that stray dog way?”  
        “He appeals to me as a person.”  
        “I find him attractive, too.”  
        Will was quiet for a long moment. He began to tremble again. Hannibal smiled despite himself; he wanted Will to feel at ease, yet found his vulnerability delectable. Will said quietly, “I wish I didn’t. I don’t know what to do and I’m sorry.”  
        “What do you want?”  
        “I want him to go home.”  
        “We can leave while he’s sleeping.”  
        Will’s voice was solemn as he said, “Leave him flat.”          
        “You feel you owe him something?”  
        “No…I’m just not sure he’ll give up so easily.”  
        “You want him to go home and do what, exactly?”  
        “Advance his position in the FBI in order to protect us.”  
        “That’s unusually practical of you, Will.”  
        “I can be practical.”  
        “You are rather dreamy, with quite uncommon sense.”  
        “I think I should be insulted, but I’m never entirely sure.”  
        Hannibal laughed. “Tell me the truth, Will. Please.”  
        “Having an ally within the FBI should be enough of a reason.”  
        “Should be, but there’s something else.”  
        Will sighed. “I think he can do a lot of good. I mean, he could do what I used to do. He could be my agent…my agency in that world I’ve abandoned. But he said he won’t go back without me. So…my choices are to change his mind or kill him.”  
        “What about friendship?”  
        Will’s eyes widened. “Uh?”  
        “You two have a lot in common. We three.”  
        “You mean the illusion of friendship.”  
        “No, I mean the real deal. Do you think you’re not allowed to have a friend?”  
        Will shot him a sidelong —almost suspicious— glance. “Not him.”  
        At that moment, Will’s downcast eyes appeared as dark as the harbor into which they had sailed. Hannibal now understood his conflict; he saw that Will did not want to kill Aubrey but could not admit it, that he craved his company but could not accept it, that he felt agonizingly guilty of disloyalty. Hannibal had the urge to take his face between his palms and turn it to face the light from the window, but he did not. He could relieve his sorrow, could tell him that Aubrey was forgiven and that he might prove to be an acceptable addition to their unusual family, except for the fact that Hannibal still wanted to watch Will punish the younger man for his transgression, as they had agreed. “Unfortunate that a potential friend had to misbehave like that.”  
        “Very unfortunate.”  
        “How long will you try to convince him to leave?”  
        “I would like to hear you play a duet. Unless you only said that to reassure him that he wasn’t about to be eaten.”  
        “I meant it, and he didn’t seem particularly reassured, though he is open to sharing. His trauma is always present, yet doesn’t define him. It’s an impressive achievement, transcending pain.”  
        Hannibal recalled in full detail the dungeon where Aubrey had trapped him, recalled the the anguish of his sister’s memory finally yielding into peace. The experience had followed a design borne out of understanding. He continued, “I believe he’s a natural empath, like you. If friendship is not allowed, perhaps we can still enjoy his company for a time. I’ll go see if he’s awake.”  
        Hannibal ascended to the second story and found the door to Aubrey’s room ajar.  He quietly pushed it open and saw Aubrey with his back to him, making the bed. The borrowed clothes were arranged neatly on a hanger in the open wardrobe. Hannibal waited until Aubrey finished, fascinated by the care he was taking to smooth the sheets,  then gently knocked on the doorframe and said, “Good morning.”  
        Aubrey started slightly, but he turned to face him. “Good morning, Dr. Lecter.”  
        Dr. Lecter looked him over. He was dressed in a clean hunter’s shirt with a leather patch at the shoulder, canvas trousers, and boots. Hannibal asked, “Did you have trouble sleeping last night?”  
        Aubrey’s face turned slightly pink. “I slept well, but I did go to the cabin early this morning for a change of clothes. I t-tried to be quiet.”  
        “You were.”  
        Hannibal stepped into the room. Aubrey stood a bit straighter. “I only went to the cabin.”  
        “I believe you. Did you dream?”  
        “I always dream.”  
        “Have you dreamed of me?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “What do I do, in your dreams?”  
        “You…hurt Will.”  
        “Those are nightmares, Aubrey. Will and I don’t want any more violence between us.”  
        “That doesn’t mean it won’t happen.”  
        Hannibal paused. “Maybe we would both be safer with you.”  
        “What am I, to you?”  
        “A welcome guest whose breakfast is getting cold. Please come downstairs.”  
        Aubrey followed him to the kitchen and seated himself. Will sat down beside him, and Hannibal sat across. Hannibal poured the coffee, and as he handed Aubrey his cup, casually asked, “I have something to attend to in France. Any interest in coming along?”  
        Hannibal kept his gaze locked on Aubrey even as Aubrey looked to Will for clarification or permission, but he could feel Will’s glare. Aubrey, finding no guidance, stuttered, “I…I really don’t know. What…what is it?”  
        “In my opinion, magnificent. Have you ever visited the chapel-”  
        The sound of a coffee cup shattering on the floor interrupted Hannibal’s question. “Oops,” said Will, still glaring at Hannibal, his hand at the edge of the table —gripping it slightly— where his cup had been.  
        Hannibal stared back at him now. “How do you feel, Will? Are you experiencing an aura?”  
        “I don’t think so.”  
        “Any confusion? Missing memory?”  
        “Maybe. I don’t remember agreeing to go to France.”  
        “I’m sorry. We discussed it just a few minutes ago.”  
        Will blinked; Hannibal saw his flicker of doubt. Will rubbed the back of his own neck. “I guess I have to trust you.”  
        Hannibal saw that Aubrey was watching Will’s hand, and saw his gaze remain on his neck as Will turned his attention to the food in front of him. Hannibal scrutinized Aubrey’s expression as he saw the bite mark; rage coupled exquisitely with the urge to protect. It was righteous anger, tempered by the aching sorrow of the abused. “I’ll come with you,” Aubrey said.


	22. La Prière d'un païen

  
        Hannibal was pleased to get his way and immediately regretted the means of doing so. The pain of regret was new and strange. It twisted in his gut.  
        He had lied to Will.  
        He thought through potential reasons why, and came to the conclusion that he had simply put himself and his own desires first. He wondered if he would pay for his selfishness; karma and fate were not ideas that he dismissed offhandedly. Even so, there was no undoing it without undermining the trust he had worked so hard to build. Hannibal would rather start over and do better without having to confess.  
        Will made it clear that _Abigail_ was only for the two of them, so the doctor obtained train tickets. From Vilnius they travelled to Minsk, then on to Nice, finally arriving in Marseille after two days of companionable quietude. Hannibal and Will had a private sleeping car separate from Aubrey’s but the three spent the daylight hours in each other’s company. Aubrey gazed out at the changing landscape most of the time. Will read and daydreamed. Hannibal observed the others from behind his sketchbook. At one point, Will drifted off to sleep and slid down the seat until his head was resting on Aubrey’s shoulder. Aubrey looked nervously at Hannibal as if seeking his opinion about what to do. Hannibal nodded his approval, enjoying the shy smile that was returned to him and the way the auburn-haired man shifted his body to better support Will. They stayed like that for more than an hour, and Hannibal was able to draw the scene in perfect detail. He found himself wondering if Aubrey was fearful at night when they left him. He found himself wondering if he should ask him to join them, then chastised himself for this thought, another self-serving impulse. Will was trying hard to resist his desire; remaining faithful was his greater desire. Hannibal wanted to respect that, but he resented the unnecessary tension it was causing in place of pleasure.  
        Once they had safely reached their destination —an apartment slightly more modest than his usual choice, for security’s sake— Hannibal was further tempted by the proximity to the opera house and Notre-Dame-de-la-Garde. He denied himself these diversions, focusing instead on Bedelia Du Maurier.  
        Donning what he considered a hideous disguise —false beard, baseball hat, sunglasses, sportswear, and a huge camera with a zoom lens— he positioned himself to observe his prey’s daily routine. She was keeping to a schedule so tight that he concluded it must be part of the trap. After a week of observation he was sure he could account for her whereabouts at any given moment, give or take a few seconds. There were several points on her route where she was exceptionally vulnerable, where he suspected Jack’s people were lying in wait. He would have to create a diversion.  
        In a room of the apartment away from Will and Aubrey, Hannibal assembled a device to carry out his plan. He wanted to involve the others as little as possible in this plot, which was almost too brutal for his taste but would accomplish it with the greatest ease. He packed a backpack carefully and when the time arrived, headed to the cafe that Bedelia passed on her late afternoon walk. He tucked the backpack underneath the table, out of sight. He ordered in his tourist persona, then pretended to look at his phone, while keeping his eyes on the street corner. As soon as Bedelia came into view he rose to leave. It felt natural to forget the bag. He walked to his car; a black Porsche SUV that he had parked on a side street. He counted the seconds and counted Bedelia’s steps without needing to watch her, for he had memorized her cadence and knew exactly where she would be when he pulled out onto the street.  
        The explosion was dazzling, as intended. Hannibal had rigged the bomb to be extremely loud and to create generous billows of smoke, but not necessarily to cause serious damage, if any. He considered acts of terrorism to be crass, yet he felt a slight thrill of power as he heard the screams and watched people scatter in fear. He drove through the smoke and saw Bedelia standing against a building, frozen in place and staring in the direction of the cafe she had just passed. So riveted was she by the sight that she did not notice the car pull up behind her, and did not register the sting of a needle sliding into her neck until it was too late and she was already collapsing into Hannibal’s arms. Smoke surrounded the car. Hannibal placed her in the backseat. He drove away, taking a circuitous route through the city until he was absolutely sure that nobody was following him. It was almost too easy.  
        He returned after nightfall, when Bedelia had regained just enough consciousness to walk with assistance and would merely appear drunk to any curious passerby. He walked her into the apartment past Will and Aubrey, who were watching the news in the living room, and ensconced her in the spare room where he had assembled the explosive. He gave her a strong sedative, then went to the bedroom and removed his disguise. When he returned to the living room, Will gestured at the television and asked, “Was that you?”  
        Hannibal nodded. “The reporter is saying there were no casualties.”  
        “I’ll take your word for it. My French isn’t so good.”  
        The doctor looked at Aubrey, who was seated at the far end of the couch. His posture appeared relaxed, but his quickened breathing gave away his anxiety. Hannibal said, “Let’s have an aperitif.”  
        Hannibal switched off the television and put on some music. He prepared three glasses of absinthe in the traditional _louche_ ritual, and this seemed to draw Aubrey’s attention away from the abducted woman in the other room. After they had consumed their drinks, Hannibal said, “Perhaps you two would like to go for a walk until dinner is ready.”  
        He turned up the music and returned to the other room, closing the door behind him.  



	23. From Hell's heart

  
         The night air was refreshing, and Will was comforted by the smell of the sea. He and Aubrey walked side by side, taking their time to reach the old port. They stood gazing out at the moored boats gently rising and falling. “Is this your first time?” Aubrey asked, the amber-colored lights of the port reflected in his eyes.  
        “First time doing what?”  
        “Being an accomplice to the murder of an innocent person.”  
        “Bedelia is far from innocent. She killed one of her patients. And she was Hannibal’s accomplice in Italy.”  
        “I thought he had drugged and brainwashed her.”  
        Will laughed. “She’s a liar. As twisted as any of us.”  
        “You’re not. Twisted.”  
        Will met and held his gaze. “Tonight is not the point of no return. I am well beyond that. You’re still trying to throw me a rope…past the event horizon. It will never reach me.”  
        “Theoretically. Nobody knows what really goes on inside a black hole.”  
        “I know there’s no coming back. Not for me. But you could go back…be the person you want me to be. Make the decision you think I should make.”  
        “What decision is that?”  
        “To get away from Hannibal before it’s too late.”  
        “Do you want to get away from him or not?”  
        “It doesn’t matter. Don’t you see? I can’t stay away even if I wanted to.”  
        Aubrey’s tone was gentle as he said, “That sounds like addiction, not love. Do you know the difference?”  
        Will felt no need to hide the truth from him. “Not really.”  
        “Please, let me help.”  
        Aubrey’s face was open, inviting, and there was such kindness behind his eyes, more than Will felt he deserved. Will leaned forward just slightly, and before he knew what was happening they were kissing. Will was unclear on who started it but neither seemed able to finish it and it kept going even as his mind screamed for it to stop. His hand was braced against Aubrey’s with fingers outstretched, a mirror image. Will suddenly grabbed the other man’s wrist and took a step back, overwhelmed by tenderness and sadness and longing. There were tears on his face and again he was not sure if they were his or Aubrey’s and it made no difference either way. “I can’t,” he said, then turned and walked towards the apartment.  
         
  
        Hannibal heard the key in the lock and one set of footsteps enter. He had just set out the main course, and the guest of honor was already seated at the head of the table. From the kitchen doorway he watched Will enter the dining room and freeze for a moment as he took in the scene, which included four place settings. “Hello, Bedelia.”  
        There was a long pause before she answered, her voice heavy from the drugs in her system. “Hello, Will.”  
        Will seated himself to Bedelia’s right. Hannibal took a step into the room and asked, “Will our friend be joining us?”  
        As if on cue, the door opened again and a moment later Aubrey stepped into the room. He saw the freshly bandaged residual limb through the high slit in Bedelia's gown, and saw what Hannibal had done with the severed portion. He reached out for the nearest chair and sat down heavily, as if his knees had given out. Hannibal thought that he seemed equal parts captivated and horrified by the roast on the silver platter. He was eager to see how Aubrey would react to seeing Will take a bite of human flesh. Hannibal kept his eyes on the man’s face, wanting to savor the terrible glorious instant when Aubrey truly appreciated what Will was and would never be again. Hannibal reached for the serving fork where he had placed it beside the tray, his fingertips closing around nothing as the prongs pierced the side of his throat.  
        Bedelia pulled the fork out as quickly as she had thrust it in. She would not get a second chance —Hannibal was already gripping her wrist— but a great gout of blood cascaded from the artery she had punctured, and she laughed wholeheartedly as it rained down on her.  
        Hannibal snapped her neck with one decisive motion, then reached into the wound on his neck, pinching the artery closed between his thumb and forefinger. Will stood up from his chair so abruptly that it toppled backwards. “Tell me what to do.”  
        Hannibal sat down. Will rounded the table to him and repeated, “Tell me what to do. Can you fix this?”  
        “No. Without immediate surgery I’ll bleed out.”  
        “What’s the French equivalent of 911?”  
        “112.”  
        Will handed his cell phone to Aubrey. “Call it, now.”  
        Will dragged Bedelia’s body out of the chair and into the next room, while Aubrey dialed with shaking fingers. “I n-n-need an am-b-b-b—”  
        He held the phone out to Hannibal, who took it and spoke to the dispatch in perfect French, explaining that there had been an accident. “They’re on the way,” he said calmly, handing the phone back to Aubrey.  
        Hannibal was full of cold fury. Bedelia had succeeded in thoroughly humiliating him and jeopardizing his freedom, not to mention ruining a much anticipated dinner.  
        The paramedics wasted no time getting him into the ambulance. Will said that he would follow with the car instead of riding in the ambulance; this was according to an arrangement they had agreed upon to avoid being caught together. Hannibal knew the surgery would not take long, but he detested the thought of being powerless on an operating table. If he could make it through the next few hours without anyone recognizing him…but he dared not hope just yet, lest he invite more punishment.         


	24. Then all collapsed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comments do help my spirits....

       Will gave a fake name when they arrived at the hospital, and asked to be informed when there was news about his friend’s condition. He and Aubrey sat beside each other in the waiting room. Will was staring into space and Aubrey was trembling and picking at the edge of his splint. In a hushed tone, Aubrey asked, “Wouldn’t it be safer if we w-waited somewhere less public?”  
        “I need to be here. If he dies and I’m not here…”  
        “If anyone can survive this, it’s him. He knew exactly what to do.”  
        Will hung his head and covered his face with both hands. The emergency room doors opened. Aubrey looked up and saw Jack Crawford stride into the hospital with four men flanking him. “Jack’s here, stay down,” Aubrey whispered as he hugged Will’s head to his chest as if comforting him in his grief.  
        Jack walked to the reception desk without glancing in their direction. He showed his badge and a security officer escorted them down the hallway. Aubrey said, “We need to go.”  
        He wrapped an arm around Will’s shoulders and pried him out of the chair. They left the hospital and walked until they found a narrow side-street to duck into. Will’s hands were still covering his face. He began to pace, keening like an animal in pain. Aubrey said, “It’s going to be okay.”  
        “No, it’s not. They’re going to torture him. If he even survives. If he even survives with half a mind…they’ll destroy him.”  
        “What do you mean?”  
        “They’ll lock him up in a hole somewhere and throw away the key. That can’t happen. I won’t let it happen.”  
        Will suddenly stopped pacing and looked at Aubrey, saw how his hands were wringing the strap of the black bag he had slung over his shoulder. It was a bag that Hannibal had prepared in case they needed to leave at a moment’s notice, which contained their passports, spare cell phones, cash, Will’s handgun, and a folding knife with a curved blade. “Why did you bring that?” Will asked.  
        “I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea.”  
        “You planned this.”  
        “No.”  
        “You saw an opportunity to get what you wanted and you took it. When you called for the ambulance, you told someone.”  
        “No, Will, I could b-barely speak—”  
        “Give me my gun.”  
        “You can’t go in there.”  
        “Give me my gun.”  
        “Don’t do this. They’ve got him. He’s caught.”  
        Will felt his conscious sense of self suddenly give way to something completely feral. He was highly aware of the impact of his fists on the other man’s face, he felt every nuance of the pain he was causing, but was powerless to stop himself. Will blacked both his eyes, broke his nose, split his lip. Will hit him so hard that the back of his head hit the wall. Aubrey fell on his hands and knees, then curled up on the ground. Will pulled at the bag but Aubrey was lying on top of the strap. Will got his gun and phone and ran.  

* * *

  
        Hannibal regained consciousness slowly. He detested the feeling of being sedated. It felt as if his arms and legs were bound. He tried to bring his hands together, and heard a metallic clink an instant before he felt the handcuffs dig into his inner wrists. He tested his ankles and found that they were cuffed to the bed, too. He inhaled deeply, recognizing a familiar scent. When he finally opened his eyes, the image of Jack Crawford swam slightly. Jack was smiling. “Doctor Lecter.”  
        “Jack.”  
        They were alone in a private room, and the door was closed. There was an IV line running into Hannibal’s arm. Jack leaned slightly closer. “Are you with me?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “You lost a lot of blood. Needed a transfusion. They said you may have had a stroke.”  
        Hannibal wiggled his fingers and toes, then checked his fine motor coordination by rapidly bringing each finger to the thumb in turn. He smiled, looking at Jack expectantly. Jack said, “Seems you got lucky.”  
        “I’m not sure if _lucky_ is the appropriate word.”  
        “You’re right. You have an uncanny way of being right, for someone so wrong.”  
        “Am I? Wrong.”  
        “The majority would say so.”  
        “What would you say? Have I earned the brightest spotlight in your gallery of evil minds?”  
        Jack smirked. “Oh, you’re best kept in the dark. Too scintillating for a display case…you’d blind the audience. Incidentally, Alana had you declared sane. If I haul you back to the U.S. you’ll be locked away in the highest security prison in the nation.”  
        Jack took a syringe out of a drawer and uncapped it. He drew back the plunger, filling it with air. Hannibal said, “I see that you intend to spare me such a fate. Thank you. I have always respected you.”  
        Jack approached the IV and inserted the needle into a port on the line. His thumb rested on the plunger. “Any last words?”  
        “Let Will go.”  
        “How alike are you by now?”  
        “Will is still beholden to morals I have never been troubled by. He is himself. Please let it be that all of the crimes were mine, and mine alone.”      
        “What if he can’t be rehabilitated? Do you want me to show him the same mercy I’m about to show you?”  
        Hannibal’s composure wavered ever so slightly. “Don’t give up on him. Do better this time.”  
        Jack looked away, guilty. “All right. You have my word.”  
        Hannibal tilted his head back and closed his eyes. He went to the cottage on the cliff, to the place where he was most happy, with Will in his arms. Then the cottage fell away, the cliff vanished, the world itself disappeared, and it was just the two of them suspended in limitless darkness, in endless peace.  
        Jack’s cell phone rang. Jack sighed, then answered the call. “Yes?”  
        Hannibal looked at Jack, watched his eyes widen. There was a long pause, then Jack said, “Stay where you are. Stay on the line.”  
        Jack pulled the syringe out of the IV and hurried from the room.

* * *

  
        Aubrey was cold. It took him a while to realize that he was lying on the ground. He climbed to his feet, leaning against the brick wall to steady himself. His face felt tight and there was the taste of blood in his mouth. He made his way along the wall, and as he neared the end of the alley Jack Crawford ran by, away from the hospital, with two of his men. Aubrey turned the corner and headed towards the emergency room. He walked through the doors and approached the desk, took out his FBI identification card and showed it to the woman at the counter. “Where are the others?” he asked.  
        She looked him up and down, then scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to him. She pointed to a set of double doors beside the desk. She pushed a button and they opened. Aubrey proceeded, glancing at the room number she had given him. It took him a few minutes to find it. The other two members of Jack’s team were stationed at either side of the door. Aubrey approached the one on the left and said, “I just saw Will Graham. He’s right outside, you’d better hurry.”  
        The man squinted at him in confusion. Aubrey shouted, “Go! Now!”      
        The man hesitated for a moment longer, then turned and ran down the hall. The other guard asked, “Can I see some identification?”  
        “Yes…of course.”  
        Aubrey drew closer to him. He fumbled with his wallet, his hands shaking badly. The guard sighed and stepped in to help. Aubrey swayed as if he might fall; the guard reached out to support him. Aubrey coughed into his face, spattering him generously with blood. “Oh, shit…I’m sorry. I’m positive.”  
        The man stared at him. Aubrey repeated, “I’m _positive_. You’d better get that off of you.”  
        A look of terror crossed the guard’s face. He sprinted away even faster than the first guard. Aubrey was now alone in the corridor. He entered the room. Hannibal’s eyes immediately met his, then explored his battered face. The doctor said, “Hello.”  
        “Hello,” said Aubrey, approaching the bed. The hospital gown was riding high up on Hannibal’s thighs; Aubrey pulled it down, then reached in his pocket for the keys he had lifted from the guard. He unlocked the cuff on Hannibal’s right wrist, then handed him the keys. Hannibal unlocked the rest. He pulled the IV out and got up, crossed to the door, and glanced out into the hallway. “Where’s Will?”  
        “I don’t know. He took the gun. I think he may have called Jack. I saw Jack leave the hospital.”  
        Hannibal took Aubrey’s hand in a firm grip and led him from the room. They walked quickly down the corridor until they came to the men’s lavatory. Hannibal opened the door to reveal a doctor washing his hands. Hannibal pulled Aubrey into the bathroom and locked the door behind them, then turned his attention to the doctor. Hannibal quickly overpowered him and applied a chokehold. The man was unconscious within seconds, and Hannibal stripped him of his clothes. He threw off the hospital gown and got dressed. Aubrey watched all of this in a state of detachment; he did not avert his gaze from Hannibal’s nudity. Even without clothing the man did not appear naked; it was as if his skin itself was something he consciously chose to wear. Hannibal placed the doctor’s unconscious body on the toilet and closed the stall door, then took Aubrey by the hand again and proceeded down the hallway. They made their way through the hospital. Aubrey nearly lost his footing as they rounded a turn. “I can’t see,” he said.  
        “Your eyes have swollen shut.”  
        Hannibal drew him closer to his side. Aubrey could tell they had left the hospital when he felt cool air hit his throbbing face. He heard the sound of a vehicle door opening close at hand. Hannibal said, “There’s a step up.”  
        Aubrey stumbled once, then found the step on his second attempt. He climbed into the passenger seat and immediately pulled his knees up, curling his body around the bag. He felt Hannibal snake an arm under his legs and pull them down. His fingers were gently pried off the bag and Hannibal opened it to get something. Aubrey then felt a seat belt being buckled around him. The door closed with a sound of finality. Aubrey was scared and growing more so, and could not identify the primary source of his fear. It seemed to come from everywhere.


	25. There is a wisdom that is woe...

        Hannibal started the ambulance and the siren, and drove away from the hospital. He called Will. It went to voicemail. Hannibal did not leave a message.    
        He drove to the apartment. The street was awash in flashing lights; there were several police cars and another ambulance at the scene. Hannibal steered slowly around the vehicles. Halfway down the block he saw an unmarked car parked in a line of four police cruisers. Seven men were approaching the cluster of cars. Three were uniformed police. Two were clad in black. The other two were Jack Crawford and Will Graham. Hannibal’s foot left the gas pedal; the ambulance rolled to a stop. Hannibal watched Jack help Will into the car, placing a hand on the side of his head to protect it from hitting the doorframe. Will’s expression was blank, a million miles away.  
        Hannibal wanted to scream, but of course he did not. “They’ve got him.”  
        Aubrey did not respond. He was curled up in the seat again, his chin resting on his knees. Hannibal watched the unmarked car pull away from the curb, protected on all sides by police cruisers. He let it leave, sitting absolutely motionless. Once he was sure that he would not be tempted to follow, he drove away, out of Marseille and into the countryside. He turned off the siren and asked his companion, “Are you awake?”  
        “Yes,” Aubrey said in a small voice.  
        “Can you tell me what happened to your face?”  
        Aubrey absentmindedly wiped his sleeve across his face, smearing blood from his chin along his jaw. “He got angry.”  
        “Did you fight back?”  
        “I don’t think so. I don’t remember everything.”  
        “Are you still convinced of Will’s good nature?”  
        The response was slow in coming, and very soft. “I know why he did it. He thinks I called someone and gave you up, while h-he was in the other room with Bedelia.”  
        “I don’t think that’s why he did it. He told me he trusts you. This happened because of my arrogance and selfishness. He said it was too big of a risk, but I didn’t listen. He took out his anger on you.”  
        They rode in silence for over two hours. The doctor could see Aubrey’s shoulders shaking with choked sobs that only stopped when he turned the car off the road onto a long gravel driveway. He parked the ambulance inside an old barn. He coaxed his passenger out of his seat and led him into the house, where he guided him to one of the high-backed antique chairs surrounding the table and said, “I can tell you’re frightened, but there’s no need to be. Is it all right if I tend to your injuries?”  
        Aubrey was trembling, but he nodded. He shied away from Hannibal’s touch at first. Hannibal was patient, allowing the younger man to gradually get used to the sensation. Aubrey eventually stilled, and the doctor was able to clean his face. He applied bandage strips to cuts on his cheekbone and eyebrow. He examined a laceration on the back of his head, concluding that the skull was not fractured. He trimmed the hair close to the scalp, numbed the area with a local anesthetic, and proceeded to suture the cut. Hannibal then turned his attention to the lip, which was split through. “I have to stitch it from the inside first, then the outside,” he said, vividly recalling the first night with Will at the cottage on the cliff.  
         His patient nodded once, then remained very still and completely silent throughout the procedure, so much so that the doctor began to wonder if he had entered a dissociative state due to stress. After he had tied the final knot, Hannibal quietly asked, “Are you here, Aubrey?”  
        He gave a small nod. Hannibal made two ice packs wrapped in dishcloths, placing one between the back of his head and the chair and the other over his eyes and the bridge of his broken nose. He observed that he was still hugging the bag tightly to his abdomen. “Did he kick you?”  
        Aubrey shook his head. The doctor said, “You may have suffered a concussion, which can cause nausea. You need to rest your body and mind for several days. I understand if you don’t feel like eating, but I’m going to make something now. It should be ready by the time the anesthesia begins to wear off. You can remove the ice in twenty minutes.”  
        Hannibal rose and went to the kitchen, which was just adjacent to the dining area where Aubrey was seated. The doctor had had the house stocked with food and sundries in anticipation of their arrival after their time in Marseille was concluded. He gathered ingredients, focusing on the recipe to distract himself from the pitch-black feeling welling up inside. Being separated from Will had led to impulsive behavior in the past and he could not afford any more trouble at the moment. He set about making a simple chicken soup with clear broth, roasting the bird first to bring out the flavor, trying not to think about the untasted roast of Bedelia that was surely criminal evidence by now. He made a stock with vegetables, fresh herbs, and the carcass. He prepared two bowls and set them on the table.                          
        Aubrey finally put the bag aside, and Hannibal was surprised to see him feel around for the spoon, then carefully dip it into the broth and bring it to his swollen mouth. He swallowed delicately. “Is there anyone in this?”  
        “Just a local bird.”  
        Aubrey laughed, surprising Hannibal again. “Are you going to fatten me up for slaughter?”      
        “No. I have no interest in slaughtering you.”  
        “Then what interest do you have in me?”  
        “Why did you help me?”  
        “I couldn’t stand the idea of Will thinking I betrayed him. And what he said about what they would do to you…lock you in a hole.”  
        “You found yourself empathizing. Even though you had already done something similar to me.”  
        “As stupid as it sounds, I didn’t realize until then that what I did to you was a reflection of what was done to me.”  
        Hannibal was curious about the details, but he did not think probing deeper was a good idea at the moment. “I don’t think it’s stupid. We’re often blind to our motivations. Was it therapeutic to hold power over me?”  
        “As you said before, maybe I’m now more capable of behaving honestly.”  
        “I consider that progress.”  
        “Psychiatrists use that word a lot. Progress. Towards what?”  
        “A deeper sense of who you are.”  
        Aubrey ate another spoonful. “It’s so quiet here. If it’s possible, after dinner may I please have some music?”  
        “You don’t do well in the quiet and the dark, do you?”  
        “Not really.”  
        “I’ll play for you.”  
        Hannibal Lecter considered no home complete without at least a piano and harpsichord, and he had secured both. The sound of the harpsichord could be loud and jarring, so he chose the piano in consideration of his audience. He had only been playing for a minute when Aubrey rose from his chair and crossed the room to the bench, seating himself beside Hannibal. The doctor was then keenly reminded of the second night at the sea cottage. He was interested to see what the man beside him would do next. When he finished playing, Aubrey asked, “What was that?”  
        “One of my compositions.”  
        “Is it for Will?”  
        “It is.”  
        “Could it benefit from a v-violin part?”  
        “The duet we spoke of, yes.”  
        “Would you please play it again?”  
        Hannibal did so. Aubrey lifted his right hand, his fingers trembling slightly as he felt the black keys to orient himself. Listening intently, he began to play along, composing a complementary part. Hannibal quickly realized that although he was not a skilled pianist he clearly had perfect pitch and knew exactly which notes he wanted to play. Hannibal supposed that he would grow accustomed to the feeling of mild astonishment that Aubrey was capable of stirring within him. When they were finished, Hannibal said, “That was beautiful.”  
        Aubrey said in a near-whisper, “Let’s play it again.”  
        “That’s enough for tonight.”  
        Aubrey hugged his splinted arm tightly to his stomach, and Hannibal saw that the pain was psychogenic in nature. In the same hushed tone, Aubrey said, “You didn’t answer my question.”  
        “Remind me?”  
        Hannibal remembered, but he wanted Aubrey to ask again. A deep blush spread across his face and neck, beneath the bruising. “What interest do you have in me?”  
        “You’re hurt and require care.”  
        “I could have gotten that at the hospital.”  
        “Along with a pair of handcuffs.”  
        “What does that matter to you?”  
        “Will matters to me.”  
        “I don’t understand.”  
        “That’s all right. There’s time. You need to rest now.”  
        Hannibal led him to the bedroom, where he touched his hand to the walls and furniture. He led him back to the doorway, released his hand, and said, “There’s a bathroom ten paces down the hall on the right. I’ll put things out for you.”  
        “Thank you.”  
        Hannibal said goodnight and turned to go, but he hesitated, watching Aubrey feel his way along the wall to the bed. He sat on top of the covers and pulled his knees to his chest again, then began to rock himself almost imperceptibly. Hannibal returned to the other room, where he sat down at the piano bench and continued to play.  
        He was struck by an odd feeling of doubt. Not about Aubrey; the doctor was sure that he was in a highly vulnerable state due to recent traumatic events. Hannibal did not like to compare Aubrey to Will but certain parallels were unavoidable. It seemed obvious now that Will had been deeply traumatized by killing Dolarhyde and failing in his attempt at murder-suicide. Will himself had suggested at the time that he was having a psychotic episode and had clearly described hallucinations and delusions. Hannibal had rejected this idea, and now he doubted himself.  
       _We’re often blind to our motivations._ He had thought that he had known what he was doing, that he was being fair and kind, receptive to the other’s needs and desires, but maybe he was just obeying his own hunger. Had he ever respected Will’s autonomy, or had he lied to himself and the one he loved, while preying on a wounded mind?  
        Hannibal had only hated himself once previously in his life, when he had realized that he was relieved that Mischa was dead.


	26. (hurt/comfort)

  
        Aubrey was so grateful for the music that he could have cried. In fact, he desperately wanted to cry, but was ashamed of himself for the tears he had already shed in front of Dr. Lecter, and he sensed that the man might look in on him at any moment.  
        He was confused, and the fact that Hannibal was treating him kindly only fueled his confusion. He wondered if the doctor was building rapport in order to control him. He wondered if he was building rapport himself as a survival tactic. Playing music with Dr. Lecter had felt undeniably intimate, a pleasure that Aubrey knew he needed to resist.  
        He replayed the murder he had witnessed just hours earlier at the hands of the man who now claimed that there was nothing to fear. He remembered that Dr. Lecter had said he would not hurt Will, while visualizing the livid bite mark on the back of Will’s neck. Aubrey reinforced his defenses as best he could, yet could not compel himself to feel the same way about the man as he had when he had set out to trap him. He still believed that Dr. Lecter was best kept apart from society at large, but solitary confinement in a super-maximum prison was a form of cruelty that he did not wish on anyone, no matter how awful their crime. Now Aubrey was not sure what place there was for Hannibal in the world.  
        He was exhausted, and the bed was very comfortable. He curled on his side on top of the covers, and woke in the same position. He still could not open his eyes, but he could see daylight through the murky haze of his bruised eyelids. He could hear the piano, and though he was sure it was not true, imagined that Dr. Lecter had played all night.  
        They spent the day in a restful way, with icepacks for Aubrey twenty minutes out of every hour. The doctor removed the splint and checked the alignment of the ulnar fracture, and finding that it had not shifted, placed the arm in a plaster cast. In the afternoon they walked outside around the property. “I smell horses,” Aubrey said.  
        “There’s a small stable and a paddock just ahead.”  
        “Is this place yours?”  
        “I’m renting it for now.”  
        They approached the paddock. Aubrey heard the sound of hooves and the snorting of a horse close at hand. He reached out and felt hot breath on his wrist, the velvety tickle of the animal’s muzzle. “Do you ride?”  
        “As a youth.”  
        “Have you ever imagined what it would have been like if you’d known Will your entire life?”  
        “It would have been different, for sure, to have had a friend. I believe he’s my first.”  
        “You must both feel very alone right now.”  
        There was a brief pause. “I’m not alone. You’re here.”  
        “I’m not him.”  
        “I don’t expect you to be. You have your own merits.”  
        Aubrey was unable to suppress a nervous tic of a smile even though it tugged painfully at his lip. He wanted to ask about Dr. Lecter’s plans, but instinct compelled him to remain silent. If Dr. Lecter was playing him, it seemed safer to play along for the time being. The horse nuzzled at his chest. Dr. Lecter asked, “Do you ride?”  
        “It was one of the things they had me do as therapy when I got out of the hospital. I liked it, and my adoptive family got into it, too, for me.”  
        “You’ve referred to them before as your adoptive family. Why not just family?”  
        “It doesn’t feel right.”  
        “You don’t trust them completely.”  
        “Not with things they wouldn’t understand.”  
        “Things you could trust Will with, or even me.”  
        Aubrey did not respond. Dr. Lecter’s perspective was fascinating to Aubrey’s intractably curious mind, but he was aware that anything he revealed to the doctor could be used to emotionally manipulate him. The doctor, perhaps noticing his reticence, added, “Though, Will would have to work to gain your trust, considering what he did.”  
        “He was in a state of extreme stress at the time. And considering what I’d done…I guess I had it coming.”  
        “You forgive him?”  
        “Yes. I won’t forget it, though.”  
        “That’s sensible.”  
        There was a second set of hoofbeats and another muzzle searched Aubrey’s hand. “Oh. How many are there?”  
        “Just two. Once you’ve recovered we can go for a ride. That is, if you care to stay a while.”  
        Aubrey’s heart began to pound. He had to ask the question, even if the answer made him confront the terrifying truth that he had once again become a captive. “I have the option of leaving?”  
        “You are not my prisoner. However, I’d advise against leaving the country until you no longer match the description of the man who helped me escape.”  
        Aubrey felt a tentative sensation of relief. They returned to the house, where Hannibal lit a fire to ward off the autumn chill. Without intending to, Aubrey fell asleep on the couch in front of the hearth.  
        He had a strange and terrible dream. Will was laid out on the table, either dead or in a state of paralysis, and the doctor was feeding Aubrey slices of his eyeballs, cut directly from his face. Aubrey woke gasping for breath. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said automatically.  
        He heard Hannibal’s footsteps. The doctor asked, “Sorry for what?”  
        “For, uh…f-for falling asleep.”  
        “It’s good for you to rest as much as possible. Don’t try to resist it if you feel drowsy. I’m going down the road to check on the mail now.”  
        Aubrey was glad to be alone for a while; it gave him time to recover from the nightmare. Upon Hannibal’s return, Aubrey heard him opening a box. Something was placed in his hands; a pair of over-the-ear headphones. Hannibal asked, “What kind of music do you like?”  
        “Anything, really.”  
        “I’ll make a playlist for you on the tablet and cue it up whenever you want.”  
        “Thank you, Dr. Lecter. It’s thoughtful of you.”  
        “You’re welcome. I want you to be as comfortable as possible. Are you in pain?”  
        “I’m okay.”  
        “It’s important that you tell me if you’re hurting.”  
        “It’s manageable.”  
        Aubrey did not find it necessary to explicitly verbalize the the fact that the emotional distress was worse than the physical; he had a feeling that it was understood. Hannibal said, “Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”  
        “I’d like to help make dinner.”  
        “I’d like that, too.”  
        Hannibal set him up plucking fresh thyme, oregano, and parsley from the stem. Aubrey was meticulous, placing the small leaves in a bowl one by one. He was focused so intently on his task that he started violently when Hannibal said, “That’s a good amount.”  
        The doctor apologized immediately. Aubrey felt a flush of embarrassment sweep over his skin. “Is there something else I can do?”  
        “The rest involves the stove and I don’t want you to burn yourself.”  
        “May I stay while you cook?”  
        “There’s a chair here, against the wall.”  
        Aubrey felt his way to the chair and sat down, resisting the urge to bring his feet up and hug his knees. He was painfully aware of how helpless he must appear to Dr. Lecter and did not want to make it any worse. He listened to the staccato of expert chopping, then the sizzling of the pan. An appetizing aroma filled the room. “That smells delicious.”  
        “It will be ready shortly.”  
        “I can set the table.”  
        The sizzling was muffled; Hannibal had placed a lid on the pan. Aubrey heard a cabinet being opened, then one of the drawers. He held out his hands and Hannibal placed the cutlery in one hand and the plates in the other. Aubrey carefully made his way to the doorway then crossed the few feet to the table. He arranged the place settings, recalling that the fork was supposed to go on the left and the knife on the right with the blade side facing in towards the plate. He sat in the same place that he had on the previous night. The doctor brought the food in promptly. Aubrey did his best to maintain good table manners despite his handicaps. After his first bite he said, “Fish with lemon, butter, garlic, pepper, and herbs?”  
        “You left out one ingredient.”  
        Aubrey froze. Even if he had been able to see what he was eating, he doubted that he could identify ingredients of human origin. He licked his bottom lip, just barely. “Wh-white wine?”  
        “That’s right. Will tells me you make a good omelette.”  
        “I do like to cook. Not on your level, of course.”  
        “This recipe is entirely simple, but most complex recipes are only a chain of simple steps. There’s skill and creativity involved in orchestrating an entire meal of several courses, but it can be learned.”  
        “Is it like performing surgery?”  
        “There are similarities.”  
        “Why’d you stop being a surgeon?”  
        “I lost a patient.”  
        “Doesn’t that happen fairly often?”  
        “It does, but I particularly wanted to save this one. She was a child who had been sexually assaulted and badly beaten, and was in shock from internal bleeding. I was the attending ER surgeon. I stopped the bleeds, transfused her, gave her the appropriate medications, but she went into cardiac arrest.”  
        Aubrey was quiet. Dr. Lecter continued, “It was suggested by another surgeon that she had a pre-existing heart condition. However, I don’t think there was anything wrong with her heart.”  
        “You think there was something wrong with the surgeon.”  
        “A reminder from a vengeful god.”  
        “I can only believe in a god that is uncaring or immeasurably cruel.”  
        Aubrey could feel Hannibal’s gaze. They finished the main course. The doctor took the plates away, and when he returned simply said, “Dessert.”  
        He placed a spoon in Aubrey’s hand, and touched a cool plate to his fingertips. Aubrey said, “This blind tasting must provide you with at least a little entertainment.”  
         “I’m enjoying it, despite the circumstances. Do you feel put on the spot? I think people often do when I serve them.”  
        “You like to see the reaction you cause. I won’t deny you that.”  
        Aubrey took a bite, and continued, “Oh, that’s good. Vanilla, caramel, cream…and is that meringue?”  
        “Yes. It’s called _île flottante_.”  
        Aubrey ate his dessert faster than he meant to. Afterwards, they washed and dried the dishes together. Once everything was put away, Aubrey said, “Dr. Lecter, I would appreciate something for a headache.”  
        “How long have you had it?”  
        “Since our walk, but it’s getting worse.”  
        “Lie down on the couch, I’ll bring you some acetaminophen.”  
        Aubrey obeyed, taking the pills that Hannibal offered him without hesitation. The doctor applied the ice again. The fire had gone out during dinner, and Aubrey began to shiver. He felt a blanket placed over him, then heard the sound of small sticks being snapped for kindling. Before long, the fire was crackling again. He found himself drifting off over and over, or rather, coming to again and again as the doctor removed and applied the ice packs. This continued until he was certain that the hour was late and he should move to the bed, but he felt so comfortable that he could not compel himself to rise.      
        He awoke to music, and it took him a minute to realize that he was wearing headphones. He was relieved to open his eyes to the early morning light, and eagerly looked around at the interior of a stone cottage that must have been a few hundred years old. He removed the headphones and got up, craving a shower. As he walked down the hallway he glanced into the bedroom and was surprised to see Dr. Lecter sleeping, hair mussed and chest bare. Aubrey peered at the bandage on his throat and his pallid complexion, evidence that he had nearly bled to death. He looked closer, making sure that he was breathing. Satisfied, he turned away.  
        Aubrey greeted his face in the bathroom mirror with trepidation. His eyes were swollen and blue-black all around, and the sclera of both were completely red. The bridge of his nose was purple as was his distended upper lip, where the bruising formed a corona around the site of impact. The stitches were very fine; Hannibal had taken care to perfectly align the border of his lip. Aubrey found the general appearance of his face ghastly. He remembered seeing his mother in such a state as she lay crumpled on the floor. He averted his eyes and was glad that the mirror fogged over by the time he was done with his shower.  
        He dressed and walked back down the hallway as quietly as possible so as not to disturb the doctor, but as he passed the bedroom door he saw that the bed had been made. He found Hannibal in the kitchen, drinking coffee. “Good morning, Dr. Lecter. If I’d known there was only one bed I would have slept on the couch from the start.”  
        Hannibal smiled at him warmly. “Aubrey, I want you to make yourself at home for as long as you’re here.”  
        Aubrey gazed longingly at the coffee cup in Hannibal’s hand. The doctor said, “I’d offer you some, but caffeine isn’t good for a concussion.”  
        Hannibal made him a juice of fresh fruit and vegetables with ginger. Despite its unappealing color it tasted delicious, and the heat of the ginger seemed to ease his residual headache. After they finished their drinks, the doctor put him through an eye examination. “There’s no need for medical intervention,” he concluded.  
        “What about you? You look anemic,” said Aubrey.  
        “I would have benefited from another transfusion.”  
        “I’m O negative.”  
        Dr. Lecter looked up at him with an expression that was openly hungry. “Are you sure?”  
        “Yeah, I’ve given blood lots of times. They’re always glad to get the universal donor.”  
        “I meant, why do you want to?”  
        “I see a person who needs help and I have the ability to help. It doesn’t go much further than that.”  
        “Not _much_ further.”  
        “Only slightly.”  
        Hannibal regarded him curiously. Aubrey wondered how often he had fixed that penetrating gaze on him without his knowledge in the last two days. Feeling defensive, he said, “There’s nothing wrong with my blood.”  
        “I’m sure there isn’t, and I wouldn’t dream of asking. An insurance agent once found his way to my table by informing me that he would find out if I was hiding an infection.”  
        “That was uncalled for, but did he really deserve to die because of it?”  
        “I needed ingredients for a dinner party and he was in my Rolodex of the rude.”  
        Aubrey stifled a laugh; the fact that this amused him made him feel ghoulish. “Do you still keep such a thing?”  
        “Left behind in Baltimore. I don’t think Will would approve, anyway.”  
        “Has he asked you to stop?”  
        “Never.”  
        Hannibal smiled, and then his smile fell, revealing deep sorrow and exhaustion. Aubrey rolled up his shirt sleeve, offering his arm to the cannibal. Dr. Lecter prepared all of the necessary supplies, including a large chemistry flask into which he added a chemical solution. He cleaned Aubrey’s arm with alcohol and applied a rubber tourniquet. He attached a needle to a long rubber tube and placed the loose end in the flask, then slid the needle into the vein. He gently swirled the flask to mix the blood with the solution. Aubrey opened and closed his fist as he watched the level rise. Aubrey said, “In this way I can nourish you with my body, without having to die. Maybe it will feel something like eating me.”  
        The doctor looked at him with unexpected tenderness. “Keep beautiful thoughts like that to yourself or I shall be tempted to keep you. I shouldn’t, and I can’t.”  
        “What do you mean?”  
        “I must stay here, and you’re the only one who can help Will.”  
        Aubrey was astounded. “I don’t see how I can help. Won’t he go to prison for his involvement in what happened?”  
        “I don’t think so.”  
        “But there will be evidence.”  
        “Jack Crawford will want to use him to lure me, and for that to happen Will needs to be somewhat accessible to me. He’ll bring him back to the US where he will be found mentally unstable and thus unaccountable for his part in my crimes. Jack will keep him under surveillance and wait for me to come get him.”  
        “He can’t really expect you to walk into that?”  
        “He’s counting on it. I’m going to have to disappoint him. I love Will more than I love my freedom, but Jack wants me dead.”  
        “What?”  
        “He was about to murder me in the hospital by injecting air into my IV line when he got the call from Will. Jack considered it mercy. He also threatened that if Will can’t be rehabilitated he would consider extending the same mercy to him.”  
        Aubrey’s heart was racing. He felt light-headed and was faintly shaking. The doctor asked, “Have I taken too much blood?”  
        “No, take the wh-whole pint.”  
        “Then I’ve upset you. I’m sorry, but now you understand that Will isn’t safe with Jack, and there’s nobody for him to turn to. He needs you to protect him.”  
        “I doubt he wants to think about me ever again, let alone accept my help.”  
        “He needs you all the same.”  
        Hannibal undid the tourniquet, withdrew the needle, and pressed gauze firmly to the site for a few minutes until it stopped bleeding. Aubrey eventually asked, “Dr. Lecter, you want me to kill Jack Crawford, don’t you?”  
        “I trust you to keep Will safe.”  
        Hannibal prepared the transfusion. He added a few extra pieces to the beaker setup, embellishing its already arcane appearance, then inserted a needle into his arm. The blood slowly began to drain from the beaker directly into his vein. Aubrey watched these proceedings distractedly. He knew that Alana Bloom had filed an official complaint against Jack Crawford in regards to his handling of Will in the past, but he had not imagined that the man was capable of what Hannibal had described. Aubrey was now convinced that Hannibal truly needed him. He was also sure that he should only trust his own judgment. He breathed a quiet sigh. “I’ll do whatever it takes, Dr. Lecter.”  
          
        


	27. …and there is a woe that is madness

        The woods. Will wandered, listening to the sound of water running over rocks, until he found the meadow clearing and the small stone cottage. It was a ruin with no roof, crumbling walls, and an empty space where the large round window had been. Pieces of glass were scattered on the floor among the stones; Will lifted a shard to the sky to see the color, but the sun could not penetrate the low grey clouds, and the sliver he held was dark as obsidian.  
        He waded out into the river, until the cold water licked his throat. Then he tilted his head back and let himself drown.  
  
        Footsteps, jingling keys. Two strangers opening his cell door. He had no sense of time; he felt suspended in liquid, like a preserved specimen in a jar. He sat up and saw that his breakfast tray had been served to him some hours earlier, judging from the unappetizingly dry appearance of the eggs. One of the strangers entered his cell and commented on the uneaten food, asked Will if he wanted anything now. Will shook his head, puzzled by the idea of anyone here being genuinely concerned for his well being. He thought it more likely that if he became malnourished that there would be legal repercussions for the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The stranger was saying something about Will needing to eat. Will was not really listening. He was tired of being told what he needed.  
  
        A familiar room. The marbled pattern in the poured concrete of the walls as singular as a fingerprint. Handcuffs threaded through a loop of metal, secured to the table.  
        Jack Crawford’s tone barely hid his annoyance. “You have to talk to me.”  
        Will repeated the only question that seemed to matter. “Where is he?“  
        Jack sat down in the chair across the table and lowered his head in an attempt to catch Will’s gaze. Will stared right through him. Jack said, “I can’t tell you anything until you talk to me. Can I get you some water? Coffee?”  
        “My medication.”  
        “We don’t know what he was giving you.”  
        “I told you the names and dosages.”  
        “You don’t have valid prescriptions for any of those drugs.”      
        “Please. I haven’t slept in days.”  
        “You need to be assessed with nothing in your system. The sooner we get through the assessment, the sooner we can get you on whatever meds are necessary. Now, can you take me through what happened?”  
        “I don’t trust my memories.”  
        “Bullshit.”  
        “I got sick again, lost a lot of time.”  
        “What happened with Dolarhyde?”  
        Will guardedly met Jack’s gaze. “What do you think?”  
        “It’s been six months. Six full moons with no murdered families. I think he’s gone.”  
        “That’s a safe assumption.”  
        “Were you there when it happened?”  
        “Do I need a lawyer?”  
        Jack rose and turned off the video camera in the corner, then seated himself again. “Between you and me, you don’t need a lawyer. We have one fingerprint in Bedelia’s blood, so we know you were involved in the crime in some capacity, but France is willing to let us handle you. How involved you were comes down to how aware you were and are of your actions. For example, if you continue to insist that your name is George Silvers…”  
        Jack trailed off. Will frowned. “I never insisted my name was George Silvers.”  
        “Your photograph is on a passport in that name. Maybe Dr. Lecter did to you what he did to Bedelia. Kept you drugged and brainwashed you into believing you were someone else.”  
        “That’s not what happened to her or to me. It’s a lie.”  
        “The lie flew for her and it will for you, too.”  
        “I don’t understand what you want from me.”  
        “The truth. But I won’t let you go down for his crimes.”  
        “So, officially, I’ll be found unstable. Uh, again. And you want to know if I really am…for personal reasons?”  
        “For reasons of wanting you to be okay. I’d like to talk as friends. I’d like to take those handcuffs off.”  
        “Are we friends?”  
        “I’m trying to be yours.”  
        “I’d like to keep this…whatever _this_ is…professional.”  
        “You understand you’ll live at the hospital until you answer my questions?”  
        Will nodded. Jack mirrored the motion, then said, “It must be hard to trust me, when in the past I was dismissive. I should’ve listened better. I’m sorry.”  
        Will appreciated the apology but saw it for what it was: bait. “I’ll talk to Alana.”  
        Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Alana has removed herself from all affiliation with the FBI and this situation.”  
        “Ask her anyway.”  
        Jack appeared almost hurt, but his voice was gentle when he said, “Okay. I’ll try her now. Hold tight.”  
        Will turned his palms toward the ceiling and jerked his wrists against the handcuffs, once. Jack sighed and stepped out. Will went back to studying the whorls in the wall. In his sleepless state they seemed to undulate slowly, like serpents just below the surface of a murky pond.  
        When Jack returned, he wasted no time in announcing, “She can’t do it.”  
        Will met the news calmly. “Did she say why?”  
        “No.”  
        Will generated a few ideas, the first of which was that Jack had not really contacted her. However, if Jack wanted to assess his mental status and Will was more comfortable talking to Alana, there was no good reason for Jack to deny his request. Will’s second idea was that Alana had refused because she no longer cared. Yet, Alana had claimed to be Will’s friend and had even insisted that he stay in touch. Now that he needed her, why would she abandon him? Will considered a third option: she was scared. It was possible that she was afraid of Will, but what could he do to her while chained to a table? Did she fear that his mind would contaminate her, as she might imagine Hannibal had contaminated him? _No. She called off the bounty, taking you at your word. She trusts you._  
        That left one conclusion. Will smiled bitterly. “Hannibal isn’t in custody. I turned myself in for nothing.”  
        “Not nothing. You did it to protect him.”  
        “He didn’t need my protection.”  
        “Yes, he did.”  
        “How so?”  
        Jack paused. “Listen. No matter the circumstances, I’m glad you’re here. So is Molly. Do you want to see her?”  
        “No. Our marriage is over. I want her to divorce me, if she hasn’t already.”  
        “In the aftermath of the night in the kitchen, you told me you wanted to run away with him. Is that what happened this time?”  
         _We didn’t run, we sailed._ “I answer your questions, you let me out of here?”  
        “After an appropriate amount of time has passed.”  
        “How long is _appropriate_?”  
        “Delusional disorder and complex PTSD…at least a couple of months.”  
        Will slumped down in his chair. “Is Hannibal’s old room available?”  
        “That’s not a good idea.”  
        “You think I actually have PTSD?”  
        “ _Complex_ PTSD…very similar to what is known in the media as Stockholm syndrome.”  
        “Seriously?”  
        “You meet the criteria. You knew he had the power to kill you, you were isolated from other viewpoints except his, you felt incapable of escape, and he was kind to you. So, you bonded in order to survive. Does that sound so far from the truth?”  
        “I made my own decisions. I want to be with him.”  
        “You choose this person above all others, who manipulated you, _tried to eat your brain_ , sent a killer after your family. Killed people close to you, among his many victims. Beverly. Abigail.”  
        “Beverly would have put him away. I warned her. Abigail’s death is my fault.”  
        “No…it isn’t.”  
        “I betrayed him. I was afraid. If you want to understand, understand this. I tried to resist in every way possible, but at some point I couldn’t fight anymore. And when I finally gave up…surrendered completely…it felt better than anything.”  
        “Will-”  
        “If you really want to help me, get me out of here.”  
        “Here are the conditions. You will participate in two hours of therapy every day. If you don’t want to talk with me, you can talk with someone else. You will spend two hours outside every day in a secure courtyard where you are strongly encouraged to exercise. You can request any foods you want. You’ll have access to the library. I will be truthful with you, and I expect the same in return. Let’s start there and see how it goes.”  
        “In the spirit of truthfulness, how did you know where he was?”  
        “A nurse recognized him and called the police, who alerted us.”  
        “How did he escape?”  
        “I was hoping you would be able to shed some light on that.”  
        Will shook his head. Jack gestured at Will’s bruised and scabbed knuckles. “Who did you fight?”  
        “A stranger on the street.”  
        “A man came to the room where Hannibal was being held and said he’d encountered you outside. He’d been beaten. My men left, and when they got back, he and Hannibal were gone. The woman at the front desk said he had an FBI ID, but she didn’t catch the name.”  
        Any hesitation would arouse suspicion. “I was in the waiting room when you walked in. You didn’t see me. I must have caught the attention of that man in the waiting room, who recognized me and saw my reaction to you. He followed me out and tried to stop me. I lost my wallet in the fight…he probably used my ID.”  
        Will was grateful that he and Hannibal had left their authentic identification in a safe deposit box in Maine. Jack tilted his head and stared him down. “That’s an odd thing for a stranger to do.”  
        “Agreed.”  
        “Would you be able to identify him?”  
        Will shrugged. “White, average height, brown hair, 25-40? He grabbed me from behind. The fight was over in seconds.”  
        Jack seemed disappointed, perhaps in Will for lying, or because he had lost another lead. Will was more preoccupied with the thought of Aubrey freeing Hannibal after he had left him unconscious and bleeding. He had not imagined that it was possible to feel worse about what he had done, but Aubrey had managed to surprise him again.  
        Will rested his face in his hands. Jack said, “That’s enough for today. I’ll see you tomorrow, same time, and we’ll do the complete psych eval. I hope you can get some sleep.”  
        When Will looked up again, Jack was gone and the two guards had returned to escort him back to his temporary home, where he curled on his side on the thin mattress and closed his eyes. He imagined himself on the deck of _Abigail_ , lying in the sun, Hannibal at the helm, the ocean all around.  
        The days progressed in a monotonous routine that was the only thing that kept him somewhat anchored to reality. The lingering side effects of his anti-anxiety medication wore off and he was finally able to sleep, and he did so on a strict schedule. He consented to talk with Jack, and found himself able to be dispassionately honest about his feelings. The daily interviews that Jack conducted were therapeutic, but it was clear that he was still actively building a case. Hannibal had reiterated several times during their time together that if Will were ever caught he should not confess to any crimes, and Will was careful to respect his wishes. He was vague about where they had been and their means of travel, often citing his illness as a reason for his poor memory. Jack continued to be skeptical of this —and the relapse having occurred at all— until Will had a _grand mal_ seizure during one of their particularly intense sessions and a subsequent EEG revealed distinct abnormalities. Jack pushed less after that, and apologized for having called his symptoms _bullshit_.  
        Will knew the tricks and met them as they were presented. He felt comfortable enough to at least consider what Jack was saying. Jack did his best to create cognitive dissonance between Will’s admiration of Hannibal and abhorrence of the doctor’s behavior. _How can a moral person approve of an amoral person?_ It was calculated to make Will remember himself and question his connection with Hannibal, but he found it easier than ever to hold the paradox. Hannibal was freedom.        
        There were things he could not tell Jack, yet as the weeks passed they came to mutual understanding and respect, and even rekindled some of the camaraderie that had once existed between them. But always present was the silhouette of a stag waiting in the shadows.  
        Will grew more and more apprehensive as his stay reached the two-month mark. He was willing to say whatever Jack wanted to hear, as long as it meant he could leave. One day, Jack asked him, “How do you imagine your best case scenario?”  
        Will put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “Where I was when you first came to ask for my help. Living in my little house, with my dogs, teaching some, doing some good, fishing a lot.”  
        “Your former life.”  
        “Looking back, I think that was the best I could’ve hoped for.”  
        Jack sighed. “I’m not convinced that it would be safe for you to stay by yourself for the time being. I know you like your privacy, but it might be a good idea to live with someone for a while.”  
        “With you?”  
        “Ah, no. I have a proposal I’d like you to hear out. Will, what you offered the FBI bordered on the supernatural-”  
        “It’s all there in the evidence.”  
        “Yeah, well…not everyone can see what you see. When you left, you left a space. Others have tried to fill that space, with limited success. The proposal is this: you provide close mentorship to an agent with the potential to do what you do. This agent has offered the use of their home, a house a lot like yours, where you’ll be provided with room and board-”  
        “This isn’t just hypothetical…you’ve already identified someone.”  
        “Yes, I’d like you to meet.”  
        “Now?”  
        “Now.”  
        “I’ve got some savings, I could rent my own place.”  
        “You could…or live for free on fifteen acres next to a river. I’ve been out there, it’s nice.”  
        “I don’t know. This is weird.”  
        “I think you’d agree that you’re not entirely well. You would benefit from the company.”          
        “I…can’t just move in with a stranger.”  
        “That’s why I want you to meet. If you decide you’re okay with it, you can go today. If not, we may have to hold you a little longer until we can figure something else out.”  
        Will hesitated. He was not prepared to co-habit with someone, let alone be a mentor, but he desperately wanted to leave and Jack knew it. Jack was trying to use him, as usual, but at least this time he seemed genuinely concerned for his well being. If he refused, there was no guarantee that the next offer would be better. Will could hear fear in his own voice as he said, “Okay. But I can’t go to crime scenes. Or the morgue.”  
        “Whatever you need.”  
        Jack left the room and returned a minute later accompanied by a younger man. Will looked at the floor, reluctant to make eye contact. The man seated himself at the table and extended his hand. “Hello, Mr. Graham. I’m Aubrey Winston.”  
        Will shook his hand. Aubrey continued, “I was your student before, and eager to be again.”  
        “I remember you. You sat in the back. You were quiet.”  
          
        


	28. An intense copper calm...

  
        “We’re being followed,” Will said automatically, eyes locked on the black car in the rearview mirror.  
        It was the first thing he had said since getting into Aubrey’s car forty-five minutes earlier. Will glanced at him furtively, afraid of what he might see. Aubrey’s profile was the same; Hannibal must have reduced his fractured nose. His hair was cut very short, perhaps to de-emphasize its reddish tint, and it made him look young…younger than Will remembered. Aubrey kept his gaze on the road. “They’re going to keep you under surveillance for a while. Hannibait.”  
        Will laughed hollowly. Aubrey looked at him then, offering a tense smile, and said, “I’m sorry if I put you on the spot. I wish I’d had a way to warn you.”  
        “Still so polite.”  
        There was a pause. “I’m glad you decided to give this a chance.”  
        “I bet you are.”  
        Aubrey winced just slightly, and looked away. Will felt sick. Eventually, Aubrey said, “I need you to know that I don’t expect anything of you. I don’t want anything from you that you’re not willing to give. I got you out because I care about you and I don’t trust Jack. No stipulations. You don’t have to be my mentor or my friend.”  
        “Were you working with Jack the whole time?”  
        “No. I’ve never lied to you.”  
        “You went to him and suggested this idea?”  
        Aubrey nodded. “I said I’d heard you were back. Said I wanted to help. I did a couple of profiles…guess they impressed him enough.”  
        “You should have stayed away.”  
        “Why?”  
        “You’ve put yourself between me and Hannibal again. It’s a dangerous place to be.”  
        Aubrey just smiled. The sun was beginning to set as they pulled into a long driveway that snaked through a stand of trees. The car that had been following them did not proceed onto the property and was soon out of view as they rounded the bend. They parked on a patch of gravel next to the house. Jack had been accurate in his description; it looked a lot like Will’s former residence, a small house on a big property that was mostly wooded. Will asked, “Is the place bugged?”  
        “Your phone and computer are being monitored and they’ll be screening the mail. That’s it.”  
        As soon as Aubrey opened the front door, a large white dog bounded out and jumped up on Will. “Sylvie, down,” said Aubrey.  
        Will could not suppress a smile. Sylvie sat down close to his feet, her tail vigorously sweeping the porch. Aubrey reached just inside the door and grabbed a rubber ball from a shelf. He handed it to Will and said, “Come in whenever you’re ready.”  
        Will threw the ball until his shoulder began to ache, temporarily distracted from his gnawing thoughts. Sylvie showed no signs of fatigue, yet she followed him into the house. It was clean and orderly, but so sparsely decorated that Will asked, “How long have you lived here?”  
        “Ten years. Sylvie for three.”  
        Will softly said, “She’s good.”  
        “Yes, she is. My sister’s idea. Sylvie’s a failed guide dog. Trained to open the refrigerator but can’t resist helping herself. I keep the food on the higher shelves and the beer on the b-bottom. She’ll get you one if you want.”  
        “Can she pour me a whiskey?”  
        Aubrey chuckled. “I can. Neat?”  
        “Any way you’ve got it.”  
        They shared a drink at the kitchen table. It helped Will summon the courage to ask, “Do you know where he is?”  
        “As of three w-weeks ago, still in France.”  
        “You were with him the whole time?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “What was that like?”  
        “Terrifying and wonderful.”  
        “Is he…okay?”  
        “He recovered well from his injury.”  
        “And you?”  
        “With his help.”  
        Will felt a rush of jealousy and guilt as he envisioned Hannibal tending to Aubrey’s wounds. Will looked at his face closely then, studying every detail except the eyes. Hannibal had done good work, but Will saw the scars where he knew to look. Will finished his drink. Aubrey asked, “Another?”  
        Will nodded. He had missed the feeling of fuzzy warmth that alcohol could provide, the pleasant dulling of his senses. They sipped in silence as night fell. There were no lights on in the room, and Aubrey did not rush to remedy this. Will found it unexpectedly comforting, this unusual soul who was willing to sit quietly with him in the dark.  
        Eventually, Aubrey rose and turned on a floor lamp that shone a warm amber. “Let me show you the house.”  
        They started in the living room, which contained only a television, a couch, and a coffee table. The adjoining room was a den repurposed as a study. There was a stone hearth set into the wall, which was flanked by neatly organized book shelves, and there was a large wooden desk in front of a window that faced the woods behind the house. Aubrey placed his briefcase on the desk and took a wrapped package out of it, which he handed it to Will. “Jack wanted you to have this.”  
        Frowning, Will tore off the paper to reveal a fly-tying kit. He sighed. “He wants me to become a fisherman again.”  
        “A fisher of men?”  
        Will nodded. “I don’t want this gift.”  
        “Well, if you change your mind, you can set it up here.”  
        Will placed the box on the desk. He noticed a case file in Aubrey’s briefcase but did not ask about it. Aubrey showed him to his bedroom, one of two in the house, across the hall from each other on the second floor. The room was as spare as the others. There was something almost religious about its austerity, like a monk’s chamber. Aubrey said, “Please feel free to paint, or put up art.”  
        Will dropped his bag of meager belongings on the floor next to the bed. “It’s perfect. Bigger than my cell.”  
        “I’m gonna order pizza. That okay with you?”  
        “They deliver out here?”  
        “I found a place that does. I’ll send some to our friends, too.”  
        “How long do you think they’ll be watching?”  
        “Until the money runs out.”  
        The pizza was delivered within thirty minutes. Will could not help but respond to the appetizing aroma. He folded a piece and took a bite. “Damn,” he said.  
        “Burn yourself?”  
        “No…it’s just so good.”  
        “Yeah, they do it New York City style.”  
        Will was sure that Hannibal would have offered an analysis of the pizza, and a legend of how it had emerged from a traditional Neapolitan style. Will tried to envision him there at the table in this modest home, sharing the meal. Would it have satisfied him? Hannibal was certainly capable of appreciating simple pleasures, but his lifestyle and sense of aesthetics were a stark contrast to Aubrey’s, and perhaps Will’s own, if he was really honest.  
        Will said, “Thank you for helping him.”  
        Aubrey had just taken a bite, and waited until he had swallowed before replying, “You made it clear how you feel about him being captured.”  
        “You did it for me?”  
        “For both of you. I’ve thought a lot about what should be done with him. Now I feel like I don’t have the right. The world is enough of a cage as is.”  
        After dinner, Aubrey lit a fire in the hearth in the study. Will sat for a while and stared into the flames until he grew drowsy. He excused himself and went to bed. He woke in the middle of the night with a fierce thirst. It took him a moment to realize where he was. He opened the door to his room he saw that the light was on in Aubrey’s room. He drank from the bathroom faucet and returned to bed.  
        Aubrey was gone in the morning. There was a Post-It on the kitchen table with the message _Please help yourself_. Will was sure that Aubrey was referring to breakfast. As he was cooking some bacon, Sylvie came bounding in through the dog door in the kitchen. She sat next to Will and stared at him plaintively as he ate. “A little piece won’t hurt,” said Will, tossing her a scrap of meat.  
        Aubrey returned in the early evening. Will was on the porch, throwing the ball to Sylvie. Aubrey smiled at him as he entered the house, but did not say anything. Will thought that he looked haunted. Will waited at the kitchen table while Aubrey took a very long shower. When he finally came downstairs, Will said, “I made some pasta for lunch. There’s leftovers, if you want.”  
        “Thanks,” said Aubrey, sitting down at the table. “Sylvie, beer.”  
        Sylvie went to the refrigerator and nosed it open, then selected a bottle and brought it to him. He patted her on the head and said, “Good girl.”  
        He twisted off the cap, took a drink, then began to pick at the label, peeling it back. He asked, “How was your day, Will?”  
        “Action packed. I set up the vise, made a few Woolly Buggers.”  
        “Sh-show me?”  
        Will showed him the flies that he had tied and stuck into the small piece of foam provided in the kit. Aubrey looked at them from all angles, genuinely intrigued. He said, “Oh, we could catch something good with these. I’ve got a fly rod out there in the shed. Been wanting to learn how to use it for years now. Would you want to-”  
        “No.”  
        Aubrey froze for an instant, then came the blush. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to push.”  
        “No. No, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I reacted that way.”  
        “You’re scared that you’ll be drawn into something that will hurt. You’ve been through a lot, and need to protect yourself.”  
        “What about what you need?”  
        “I need you to not worry about that. I value _you_ , not what you can do for me.”  
        Will felt the tension in the pit of his stomach ease slightly, and in its stead he could feel the warmth, patience, and affection of the other man. He recalled what Aubrey had said in the car, and found himself willing to accept that his caring did not come with an agenda, that his intentions were as pure as he presented them. “I’ll teach you. It won’t be light for long…let’s go.”  
        Will borrowed cold weather gear from his host and they headed out to the river. The late autumn sun was glinting off the water in warm tones, painting the naked trees on the bank. They waded out, and Will demonstrated how to cast the line, then handed the rod to the other man. “Hold it like you’re shaking someone’s hand.”  
        Aubrey made an attempt. “How was that?”  
        “Pretty good, for a beginner.”  
         Aubrey smiled shyly and cast again. Will said, “Better that time.”  
         Aubrey's face was pink from the November chill, his lips very kissable, and Will realized that he was experiencing a strong sense of deja vu. He glanced around, gripped by sudden terror. “Will, are you okay?”  
        Will waited, heart pounding, but no shadow emerged from the water. They were alone, the river flowing peacefully around them. “He’s not coming for me, is he?”  
        Aubrey shook his head. Will took a deep breath and said, “Tell me about your case.”  
          
       


	29. ...was more and more unfolding its noiseless measureless leaves upon the sea.

  
        It was dark by the time they returned to the house. They changed out of their fishing gear and reconvened in the living room. Will seated himself on the couch. Aubrey stood a few feet away, holding the case file with both hands as if it were delicate or hazardous, perhaps both. “Are you _sure?_ ”  
        In response, Will patted the couch beside him. Sylvie took it as her cue to jump up and make herself comfortable. Both men laughed, then Aubrey sat down on the other side of the dog. He opened the file folder and spread photographs out on the coffee table, his expression becoming solemn. “Five bodies so far, over the last year. All found in rivers. The first two in the Potomac. The next three, chronologically in the Susquehanna, Rappahannock, and the James. All male, between twenty and forty. Cause of death is exsanguination from a single cut to the throat. All found to have a ketamine cocktail in their system…animal tranquilizer. No contusions…they weren’t bound with anything that dug into the skin, and the blood didn’t pool under the skin because the skin was removed promptly post mortem. Puncture wounds behind the Achilles tendons…they were strung up. Forensics determined from what little skin remains that they were flayed with a short, thin, curved, non-serrated knife. A blade designed for the task.  
        “So far we’ve only identified the first two victims, by dental records. The first victim was married, with an eight-year-old son, and was reported missing by his wife. Worked an office job, IT. Lived in an apartment complex. His wife said he took the trash out to the dumpster and never returned. None of the neighbors heard anything, but the dumpster is in the far corner of a large parking lot. The second victim was single, last seen at a bar, reported missing by his family when they hadn’t heard from him in three days. Worked as a mechanic. Also lived in an apartment complex. These cases made the news. Unfortunately, the killer got more thorough after that, removing the teeth of the last three v-victims. Mutilated their faces entirely, with a blunt instrument. Probably a baseball bat.”  
        Will looked closely at the photographs. “What else?”  
        “All of the victims are slightly above average in body fat percentage. That’s not uncommon, but all were found with empty stomachs, empty digestive tracts…they hadn’t eaten in at least twenty four hours before death. I think more. Starved…to loosen the skin. They’re calling the killer Buffalo Bill, who apparently scalped a Cheyenne warrior.”  
        Will caught his subtle expression of disapproval. “You think the nickname is inappropriate.”  
        Aubrey nodded. “Buffalo Bill was a showman, melodramatic. The person doing this…if there’s any _performance_ involved it will be subtle.”  
        “How’s the killer choosing them?”  
        “I’ve got an idea…though it’s not based on much. We really need to ID the other three. Waiting on DNA testing. If these were teenage girls being murdered we’d have more priority.”  
        “Aubrey.”  
        “Hmm?”  
        “Please tell me your idea.”  
        “The second victim, the mechanic…his ex-girlfriend had a restraining order against him, and there are several incident reports of domestic violence on record, but no convictions. She relocated to the West Coast after they broke up. When I spoke with her on the phone she said she didn’t want to talk about or think about him anymore, but she did say she wasn’t sorry to hear he was dead. After I spoke with her I went to see the first v-victim’s wife. At first she wouldn’t tell me anything, at least not v-verbally. She denied that her husband was ever v-violent with her or their child. But the look in her eyes, the way she moved, the tone of her v-voice—”  
        Aubrey stopped and took a series of controlled breaths, then said, “She was holding back. Detectives had already interviewed her and maybe she didn’t want to change her story. I told her that I know what it’s like to live in fear of someone even after they’re gone…and to feel guilty, like you wished it on them. Then she told me he’d started cheating on her while she was pregnant. When she called him out on it he hit her. She thought it was a one time thing, but it became routine. He cheats, she gets beaten. She was too scared to file any charges. She claimed she never told anyone what was happening.”  
        “Both of these men were abusive. You think the other three might be, too.”  
        “It could be that. A v-vigilante. But I don’t want to misled by my bias into seeing things that aren’t there.”  
        “If it turns out you’re right…if you thought they deserved it, would you be less committed to solving this case?”  
        “No. I want to catch the killer.”  
        “To prove we make a good team?”  
        “Because we have the power.”  
        Will was surprised by this answer. “Has that always been your motivation?”  
        Aubrey shook his head. “What I did in Lithuania…and the aftermath… helped me understand myself better.”  
        “Hannibal brought something out of you, like he brought it out of me. It was always there, hidden in the noise, but he made it clear. A hunger to be satisfied. What is it, for you?”  
        “To be in control. To make my world beautiful.”  
        “Do you find it ugly, the work of this killer?”  
        “Grotesque. But we’re only seeing the process…the end result remains to be revealed. What’s being done with the skin.”  
        “Based on the evidence, have you imagined the crime from start to finish?”  
        “Like you do?”  
        “Your version of what I do.”  
        “What if my imagination fills in the details wrong?”  
        “It doesn’t have to be perfectly clear. We’re trying to see the blueprint. The design.”  
        “Oh…okay.”  
        Aubrey closed his eyes, and Will watched them moving beneath the lids, wondering if it was anything like what he saw when getting into someone else’s mindset. Aubrey began to speak. “The abduction is planned, methodical. A van with a partition. Sedated quickly and quietly, with a dart. Kept in a small room…a cell or cage. Lots of noise, no conversation. Lots of water, no food. When the time is right, sedated again. Slaughtered like an animal. The skin removed carefully, with as few cuts as possible. The body unceremoniously dumped. The skin is what’s important. It is de-fleshed, stretched on a frame. Parchment is a possibility. More satisfying to wear it.”  
        “Satisfying?”  
        Aubrey opened his eyes, but kept his gaze on the photographs. “If you’d ever…killed a buck, skinned him, prepared the leather yourself, and made something out of it…it’s a feeling of pride and capability.”  
        “What did you make?”  
        “A jacket and a pair of gloves.”  
        “Protective garments.”  
        “The killer’s needs may be different. This could be a fantasy of extreme dominance.”  
        “What did you see when you closed your eyes? You didn’t use a pronoun.”  
        “I watched myself as the killer. There were two of me. One was active, feeling. The other was detached, observing.”  
        “Could you choose which perspective to take?”  
        “Yes, but it’s a trade off.”  
        “It would be a relief to be able to step back from emotions like that. I’ve always been slave to the subjective.”          
        “Do you have a place you can go where nothing can touch you?”  
        “You mean a _happy_ _place_?”  
        “Not happy. Neutral.”  
        “I think if I found that place, I would disappear.”  
        “Dissociation has its risks. But I’m talking about being as impartial as possible without losing yourself. Perceiving, without reacting. Like a one-way mirror.”  
        “I’m on the mirror side. I can only see my own reflection.”  
        “I spent a lot of time on that side. I mean literally. I remember when I started to get my sense of autonomy back, I realized the doctors wanted to keep me safe, but it still felt like captivity. They wanted something from me. To be healthy, yes, but that meant demonstrating behaviors for them. Being obedient. That mirror was strange, bigger than any I’d seen. One day there was a power outage and I saw through the glass…I saw an exit sign in the observation room. After that I found I could put my mind there…watch myself like they were watching me. I saw what I needed to do to get out. I was and continue to be grateful for their help. But I didn’t want to be a case study. I wanted to wander through the woods. I was a simple kid.”  
        “I’m not so sure that you were. You’re describing an unusual level of self-awareness.”  
        “Was my analysis of the crime reasonable?”  
        He had asked it quickly; Will supposed that much like himself, despite a willingness to share, Aubrey did not enjoy being psychoanalyzed. “Reasonable and insightful. What’s the profile?”  
        “Our suspect may work with animals in some capacity, but it wouldn’t be hard to steal ketamine from a vet school or lab. Or they may be a tailor, leather worker. They’ll own a v-van or have access to one. It’s statistically likely that the killer is male, but I think it could be a woman.”  
        “Have you reported what the first victim’s wife admitted to you?”  
        “Not yet.”  
        “It links the victims and might help to get the DNA testing pushed through. They could check the DNA against known offenders in the database.”  
        “That’s putting a lot of stock in my idea.”  
        “It’s a good idea. Maybe the killer has access to criminal records.”  
        “The first victim has no record.”  
        “It could be someone close enough to the family to notice the abuse and take matters into their own hands. They got a taste for it, then figured out a way to find their next victim.”  
        “I’ll look into it…see if there’s anyone who matches the profile.”  
        Aubrey met his eyes and added, “Thank you.”  
        “Thank _you_. This was way more pleasant than having Jack shouting in my face.”  
        “He shouted at you while you were at the hospital?”  
        “Oh, no. When we used to work together. He tends to push. Don’t let him push you.”  
        Aubrey smiled slightly. “Feeling protective?”  
        “This work can wound.”  
        Aubrey gathered up the photographs and closed the file. “I’m trusting you to tell me the instant you’ve had enough of this.”  
        “I’m okay.”  
        The younger man paused, then quietly asked, “Really?”  
        “No.”  
        “Whatever it is, you can tell me.”  
        Will had no doubt that he meant it; his expression was open and non-judgmental. Though Will felt it was safe to voice his feelings, the words still seemed to stick in his throat. “Over the past two months, I couldn’t talk about what was bothering me the most. What I did to you and why.”  
        He glanced at Aubrey to gauge his reaction. His expression had not changed. Will continued, “ _Sorry_ isn’t enough.”  
        “I forgive you.”  
        “You shouldn’t. I violated you. Survivors are often attracted to those who reinforce their trauma.”  
        “Please don’t make it about that. Your capacity for violence is _not_ why I am attracted-”  
        “It’s a pattern.”  
        “You’re trying to change the subject. Why’d you do it?”  
        Will began to sweat. “I was angry.”  
        “Because I kissed you?”  
        He suddenly appeared so pained that Will rushed to reassure him. “Aubrey, no. I wasn’t even sure who initiated it until right now. I definitely wanted it.”  
        “Oh,” he said softly.  
        “I was angry at Hannibal…for his insistence. Angry at myself, my unreliable memory. I think he lied to me.”  
        “Has he lied before?”  
        “Yes...but not since we...I guess I thought...”  
        Will shook his head. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Will was eventually able to say, “I don’t know how to be in a healthy relationship. He doesn’t know how, either. Even still, without him…it hurts. I feel...compelled to go to him.”  
        “You want to leave?”  
        “I won't be able to stop myself if I get the chance.”  
        “I understand.”  
        “Are you going to send me back to the hospital?”  
        “This was only the first day. I think being here is better for you…unless you don’t like it.”  
        “ _Don't like it?_ It’s what I would choose for myself.”  
        “Be honest. There would be a lot more dogs.”  
        Will laughed. His feelings felt more bearable after sharing them. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”  
        “Nah. Want to watch some TV? I personally find _How It’s Made_ very soothing.”  
        “Sure.”  
        Will began to absentmindedly pet Sylvie as they watched the show. She was still curled up between him and Aubrey, who was also stroking her soft white fur. Every now and then their fingers would meet, and if they happened to catch and linger, neither seemed to mind.


	30. In what rapt ether sails the world...

       “How much of that was Will Graham?” Jack Crawford asked, after Aubrey had finished giving his report.  
        Jack was not exactly staring, but Aubrey felt scrutinized. “He said my analysis was valid and that I should bring it to you.”  
        Jack nodded. “When bodies turn up like this, we get the families of missing persons asking if it’s their loved one. When we just have an unidentified body, it usually takes a while to get DNA testing done. However, if the testing can help us catch a serial killer…especially considering the water washed away all trace evidence…we have leverage. Your idea is definitely worth pursuing, but keep in mind a lot of domestic violence cases don’t rely on DNA evidence. I want you to keep thinking of other ways these guys are getting chosen. The next one won’t be far off.”  
        “Yes, sir.”  
        “Was Will agreeable to help you with this? Did it seem to upset him at all?”  
        “Yes, sir. No, sir.”  
        “Has he mentioned Hannibal-”  
        The telephone rang. Jack answered immediately. After a short conversation, he hung up and said, “We’ve got a crime scene. Different case. Could use you, if you’re up for it.”  
        “Yes, sir.”  
        “Call me Jack.”  
        They rode together, Jack driving and continuing to probe Aubrey about Will’s behavior and their conversations. It seemed that even after two months of observation and treatment, Jack was still not sure what was really going on with Will. Aubrey said that his new housemate had been keeping to himself, except when they had discussed the case, which happened to include a fishing lesson. Jack smiled at that. “Did he use the kit I gave him?”  
        “Yes.”  
        “That’s good. We’ve got a really good chance here.”  
        Aubrey was not sure if he was referring to Will achieving lasting stability, or getting him to work consistently for the Bureau again. He thought it best not to ask, hesitant to instill even a shred of doubt in Jack’s mind as to where his loyalty lay. Eventually, Jack stopped asking questions. Aubrey was glad that he had never been the kind of person to feel the need to fill a silence. Within an hour they pulled up to a large private home in a sprawling suburb outside of Baltimore.  
        A CSI van was parked in front of the house, along with a few police cruisers. There was also an ambulance, where a middle-aged man was having his blood pressure checked by a paramedic, while a woman stood nearby, clutching a blanket around her shoulders and sobbing as a detective attempted to console her. Jack parked the car and said, “It’s a ten-year-old kid. They must be the parents. The Dodsons. You need anything?”  
        “Huh?”  
        “Will prefers to be alone in the crime scene to do his thing.”  
        “Oh. I guess I wouldn’t know, seeing as this is my first.”  
        “Of course. Dumb question.”  
        “Not dumb.”  
        “It would be better to have him here. I don’t mean instead of you, I mean to offer backup. But he said he doesn’t want to go to crime scenes.”  
        “I got this.”  
        Jack smirked. “No offense, but you wouldn’t know, seeing as this is your first.”  
        “You’re right. Let’s find out.”  
        They entered the house after putting on gloves and shoe-covers. Aubrey followed the sound of a camera shutter snapping repeatedly. He froze when he saw what the CSI was photographing, but thankfully did not gasp. A young girl was sitting on the bottom step of the staircase, with her elbows on her knees and her chin resting in her hands. The pose was so natural, so considered, that if not for the pallor of her face at a quick glance she might look alive. Aubrey drew near very slowly and squatted down until he was at eye-level with the body. The girl’s eyes were closed, her face devoid of expression.  
        Aubrey abruptly realized that Jack was speaking to him and had been doing so for some time. “Sorry, Jack, could you repeat that?”  
        “Which part?”  
        “The whole thing.”  
        “They put her…Eva…to bed last night around eight. Mrs. Dodson said she came downstairs at seven this morning and found her like this. There was no sign of a break-in. There’s no alarm system, but the doors were locked.”  
        “I need to see her room.”  
        They ascended the stairs and entered a room at the end of the hall. On the wall beside the light switch was a framed photograph of the family -Eva, a significantly older male sibling, Mom, and Dad- that appeared to be fairly recent. Aubrey touched the photograph; there was no glass in the frame. He turned his attention to a wooden desk that was painted a pale shade of pink. On close inspection he noticed that the surface was deeply scored with lines made with a sharp implement. The room did not have any toys in it. There was a poster that depicted a fight between a Tyrannosaurus rex and a Triceratops on the wall above a shelf that contained several books: an encyclopedia of dinosaurs, a book about mummies, an anatomy atlas for children, and an assortment of tattered pop-up books that looked as if they had been gathering dust for a while. He crossed to the window and opened it. It slid easily, quietly. “What are you thinking?” asked Jack, startling him.  
        “She could climb out onto the roof from here, and that tree could be used to get up and down. Someone took her or lured her out, killed her, and positioned her like that…waited for rigor mortis to set in, then placed her on the stairs. The bottom step, like she’s in _time out_. Eva had behavioral issues, and whoever did this was aware of that. There are no toys here because she liked to destroy things. The desk might have been a hand-me-down from big brother, but the lines are carved through the paint.”  
        Jack glanced around the room as if affirming the evidence for himself. “Do you think Mom or Dad got tired of dealing with her issues?”  
        Aubrey looked at the photograph of the family. Mr. and Mrs. Dodson each had a hand on one of Eva’s shoulders. The presence of the photograph itself seemed like an attempt to remind their daughter that she was loved. “I don’t think so. I need to talk to them.”  
        Eva’s parents were nearly incoherent in their grief. Aubrey spent several minutes sitting with them before they were able to answer his questions. “After you put Eva to bed, what did you do?”  
        Mr. Dodson said, “We watched TV downstairs until about 11.”  
        “If Eva had come downstairs, is there a chance you might not have noticed?”  
        “We keep the volume low specifically so we don’t disturb her. The house is old, sound carries. We would’ve definitely heard her on the stairs.”  
        “Was she having trouble in school, socially?”  
        The couple glanced at each other. Mr. Dodson said, “We’ve gotten calls home.”  
        “From any teacher in particular?”  
        “All of them, in turn. Mr. Langholtz, probably more than the others.”  
        “What class is that?”  
        “Gym. Eva really hates playing team sports. There were fights.”  
        “Was she bullied or did she bully anyone, to your knowledge?”  
        Mr. Dodson nodded, as tears poured down his face. “The latter. Parents were calling, too. The school said if things didn’t improve soon, she’d have to leave. The counselor there referred us to a psychiatrist. She’s been going for a month now.”  
        “Did it seem to help?”  
        Mrs. Dodson spoke up, through her sobbing. “She was doing much better. I don’t understand how someone could do this to her. She’s just a little girl.”  
        “We’re going to do our best to catch the person responsible. Your answers to these questions will help us do that. I noticed the picture in her room…you have an older son?”  
        Mrs. Dodson said, “He’s a freshman at college. Oh, God…how am I going to tell him?”  
        “What school?”  
        “Berkeley. You don’t think…”  
        “No, I’m just eliminating suspects. Does anyone have a spare key to your house?”  
        Mr. Dodson answered, “No…but we keep one hidden under a rock in the backyard.”  
        “Did Eva know about it?”  
        “Probably.”  
        “Show me?”  
        Mr. Dodson led him to the spot. Aubrey carefully lifted the rock and confirmed that the key was underneath. He alerted a member of the forensics team. Mr. Dodson wiped his eyes and said, “She could be a good girl, when she wanted to. She just liked to get her own way.”  
        Aubrey saw that there was a rope swing attached to one of the limbs of the tree near Eva’s window. “Did she ever climb out onto the roof?”  
        “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”  
        “It’s all right. You’ve done a lot to help her. Let’s go back to your wife.”  
        He expressed his sympathy to the family, gave them his card, and told them that he would be in touch. He got back into the car with Jack and looked over the list of names he had compiled, which included teachers, parents of bullied children, the school counselor, and the psychiatrist. He could feel Jack’s gaze, and offered his thoughts before he was asked for them. “To arrange her like that, the killer would have to prop the body up using some kind of equipment. Rigor mortis begins to set in at least four hours after death. The killer knew that, and timed this crime carefully. Probably got a hold of her soon after she was put to bed, and took her somewhere private. I think there’ll be evidence that indicates she climbed out of her window and down the rope swing. Snuck out and met the killer, and showed them the key. She trusted this person…or was being manipulated.”  
        “What kind of mentality are we dealing with here? Was this intended to punish the parents?”  
        Aubrey briefly closed his eyes. “I have put your child in permanent time out. She was never going to be anything but a problem. I saved the world the trouble. I confirmed the truth, which you knew but could not act on.”  
        “Absolution, then?”  
        "The killer might see it as mercy.”  
        Aubrey watched closely for Jack’s reaction, recalling what Dr. Lecter had told him about the man’s _merciful_ intentions. Jack’s eyebrows knit together slightly, but he did not respond. Aubrey continued, “This was planned. I highly doubt it’s the killer’s first.”  
        “There was a similar case in Virginia last month. I’ll give you the file when we get back.”  
        “Why didn’t you mention that?”  
        “I wanted to see what you would come up with. You did well, even guessing that there was another victim. Who’s your main suspect?”  
        Aubrey scanned the list again. “The psychiatrist. Another victim in Virginia makes it less likely to be an angry parent. But we shouldn't eliminate anyone yet. Let’s start at the school.”  
        It was well after dark when Aubrey got home. Sylvie greeted him, and he fed her. Will was not on the first floor, so Aubrey checked upstairs. Will’s door was ajar; a beam of light from the hall fell across his chest as he lay sleeping. Aubrey returned downstairs and made himself a simple dinner. As he was putting his plate in the dishwasher, he noticed the empty bottle of whisky on the counter. It had been nearly three-quarters full when he had left that morning.  
        He went back upstairs and entered Will’s room. He turned on the light; Will did not react, but he was clearly breathing. Aubrey approached the sleeping man and nudged him in the ribs. “Wake up.”  
        There was no response. Aubrey prodded harder. “Will,” he said loudly.  
        “Hmmm.”  
        “Did you take something?”  
        “Hmmm.”  
        Aubrey rolled him onto his side. He got Will’s bag, still packed with the clothes and the medications with which he had discharged from the hospital. Aubrey found a thirty-day supply of antidepressants and anti-seizure medication. He quickly counted the pills. They were all there, including the doses he was supposed to have taken since being released.  
        He checked the over-the-counter pain relievers in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Thanks to his own compulsive neatness, he was sure that the bottles had not been touched. He went downstairs and poured a glass of water. Grabbing his briefcase, he returned to Will’s room, cursing under his breath when he saw that he was on his back again. He rolled him onto his side and arranged the bottom arm to keep him turned, then got into bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard and his legs straight along Will’s back.  
        Will immediately attempted to roll toward him. Aubrey held him in place. “Stay,” he said firmly, as he might address Sylvie.  
        “Hnnbal?”  
        “It’s Aubrey.”  
        “Awbrr. Drunk.”  
        “Did you drink it all at once?”  
        “Nnn. Turn th’light off?”  
        “Do you mind if I keep it on for a bit? I’ve got some reading to do.”  
        “Okay.”  
        Aubrey wanted to keep an eye on him, and he also wanted to review the contents of the additional case file Jack had given him. He pored over it for hours, and did not realize that he was drifting off until he was jarred awake by Will gasping loudly and writhing beside him. Aubrey could not tell if he was experiencing pain or pleasure. He shook him by the shoulder.  
        Will’s eyes opened. He lay still. Aubrey handed him the glass. He drank it all. Voice wavering, he said, “The skin…the killer wants pristine skin. No tattoos, no scars. No freckles.”  
        “Did you dream you were skinning me?”  
        Will nodded, his face contorting with disgust and shame. Aubrey said, “It’s because of the case. It doesn’t mean anything about you. It’s not _you_.”  
        “What makes you sure of that?”  
        “Do you trust me?”  
        “Yeah.”  
        “Why?”  
        “I believe that you’re a good person.”  
        “I believe that you’re a good person, too.”  
        Will forced a smile, but his eyes were sad. He shifted uncomfortably. “Thanks for watching out for me. Maybe you should get some sleep.”  
        Aubrey took the cue to leave.  
          
  
  
        The excitement from the dream was lingering, and it made Will feel filthy. Though it had happened many times before, he was still sickened by the fact that such extreme violence could elicit a sexual response. “It’s not you,” he whispered, repeating Aubrey’s words.  
       _When you ripped a man’s throat out with your teeth and fucked Hannibal in the woods, was that you?_  
        “This is different.”  
       _You already came so close to killing him._  
        “I didn’t enjoy it.”  
         _You fantasize about violent sex._  
        “Where I’m the one being hurt.”  
         _You like hurting people who deserve it._  
        “We can agree on that.”  
        His inner voice fell silent. Will closed his eyes, trying to get back to sleep before his mind could come up with another torturous thought. He slid into the warmth beside him where Aubrey had been. It was enveloping, almost like being held. Tears welled up behind his eyelids as he recalled how good it had felt to touch hands on the couch, how Aubrey was able to provide the comfort he needed with natural ease. The contact was innocent, and yet Will woke the next morning with a feeling of guilt so gut-wrenching that he found it necessary to try to numb it with alcohol. A few drinks did not do the job, so he had a few more. Then he walked the property to its boundaries, reaching the road on the other side of the woods. Escape seemed possible, but the surveillance car arrived swiftly. Will figured there were cameras or some other proximity sensors to prevent him leaving in such a manner. He stared at the car for some time, imagining the effect that could be achieved with a well-aimed Molotov cocktail. No…it would have to be bigger than that. There was a full can of gasoline in the garage. It had not rained in some time, and dry leaves would create a lot of smoke. He was very familiar with the Chesapeake Bay coastline and knew that there was a marina about three miles from there. If he could get to a boat this vacillation between lives would be over; this tattered shred of a chance at redemption would finally be severed completely.  
        He imagined what would happen if the fire raged out of control and burnt the entire property to the ground. There was no way Aubrey could forgive him for that, was there?  
        As he stood at the edge of the woods, Sylvie barked, just once. He turned and saw that she had followed him. Her dark eyes were watching him, her tail wagging optimistically. They headed back to the house, where he drank the rest of the whiskey.  
        Then he woke up next to Aubrey. Aubrey, attentive and caring and understanding, while Will dreamt of slitting his throat, stringing him up, and flaying him.  
        Will wanted out of his own skin.  
        Wide awake now, his body continued to demand the attention he refused to give it. He got out of bed and took a cold shower until he become numb. He could barely feel his hands as he dressed, and was shivering as he left the bathroom.  
        The light was on in Aubrey’s room and the door was slightly open. Will looked inside. Despite the bright light, the younger man was asleep, wearing headphones. Sylvie was curled up on the floor near the bed. A glance around the room confirmed that it was as minimalist as the rest of the house. Other than the simple wooden bed there was a dresser, upon which rested a violin. Will did not know much about musical instruments, but it appeared to be quite old. He looked down and saw Aubrey’s briefcase leaning against the bottom of the dresser. He picked it up and went downstairs.


	31. …of which the weariest will never weary?

        Will could tell that Aubrey was surprised by his presence in the kitchen early the next morning. “Hi. _Ah_ …I was looking for that,” said the FBI agent, gesturing at his briefcase on the table.  
        “I thought I’d catch up. I didn’t know you were working more than one case.”  
        If Aubrey found it weird that Will had been in his room while he was asleep he did not let it show. “Only as of yesterday.”  
        “Coffee?”  
        “Yes, please.”  
        Will made two cups with the french press and handed one to the other man. “Breakfast?”  
        “Oh, you don’t have to.”  
        “I want to.”  
        Will made eggs, bacon, and toast. Eying Aubrey’s grey suit, Will asked, “What are you up to today?”  
        “I scheduled an interview with the psychiatrist who Eva Dodson was seeing. Dr. Michael Smith.”  
        “Is there any connection to the other victim…Wayne Peters?”  
        “I spoke to his mother yesterday, asked if they had seen any doctors in the Baltimore area. She said she and Wayne were involved in a car accident four months ago on their way home to Virginia after visiting family in Baltimore. They were treated at Johns Hopkins. Dr. Smith is affiliated with the hospital. Wayne had a broken leg and was there for a few days. There was no record of him receiving psychological care during his stay, but it’s still a connection. Do you have any thoughts on the case?”  
        “Both children were posed in the same way, but Wayne was placed in his classroom. Eva’s family is wealthy. Wayne’s isn’t. Single mom, over-worked. In the interview I read, his teacher expressed concern about his aggressive behavior. She probably spent more time with him than his mother did. The killer is displaying these children to the people who would best understand how they were struggling. As if it might be a relief to see them like that…a release from obligation. ”  
        “That’s what I think, too. But how does he feel about the children?”  
        “He doesn’t believe they can be helped. Better to limit the amount of suffering they would cause and endure. A distorted sort of mercy.”  
        Aubrey finished his coffee and stared pensively into the empty cup. “I should get going.”  
        “Want company?”  
        Aubrey’s expression brightened. “That’d be great.”  
        “Can I borrow something a little less prison-issue?”  
        “Sure, c’mon.”  
        They went to Aubrey's room, and as he pulled a few different suits out of his closet and lay them on the bed, Will found his gaze drawn again and again to the violin. “Is that your mother’s…did you have it repaired?”  
        “No, it was too badly damaged. That’s a gift from Hannibal.”  
        “Not _Dr. Lecter_ , anymore?”  
        Aubrey shyly shook his head. “I wish you could have heard us play for you.”  
        Will felt that he might say something he would regret, something along the lines of _maybe it’s still possible_ , but he restrained himself. “Thanks, anyway.”  
        Will chose a black suit and changed quickly. Aubrey was a couple inches taller than him, with wider shoulders, and the jacket was a bit oversized, yet passable.  
        As they pulled out of the driveway they were met by the surveillance car. Aubrey stopped, turned on the dome light, and rolled down his window. “Will’s with me today.”  
        From his place in the passenger seat, Will could only see silhouettes in the other car. One of them nodded, and Aubrey continued down the road, the other car following behind.  
        They arrived at the doctor’s private practice in Baltimore and were promptly buzzed in. The two agents assigned to tail them waited outside the building. The psychiatrist’s office was on the second floor. It was pleasant and brightly-lit, with comfortable looking couches, toys, and small chairs for the young clientele. Dr. Michael Smith was likewise a friendly looking man in his 60s, with old-fashioned glasses, clad in an unfashionable tweed jacket over an argyle sweater. Aubrey and Will each shook hands with him, but Will noticed that the doctor did not look at him at all; his gaze was fixed on Aubrey as they seated themselves. The doctor glanced at the business card he was holding, then back up at Aubrey, frowning as he continued to stare intently. Aubrey said, “Thank you for meeting with us. I’ve got a few questions-”  
        “Clarence? Clarence Starling?”  
        Aubrey’s eyes grew wide and his mouth opened slightly as if he were about to say something, but no sound came out. The doctor continued, “It _is_ you. You changed your name, but I’d never forget you. It’s okay if you don’t remember me. It’s been, what, twenty three years? To you I would’ve been Dr. Mike.”  
        “Dr. Mike.”  
        “That’s right. It’s so good to see you! I’m happy to see you’ve done so well for yourself. The FBI…wow! Ah, but you were always so smart, and so well-behaved.”  
        Will tried to catch Aubrey’s gaze but he seemed to be transfixed, biting his lip. Will did not need to be an empath to see that this interview was not going as expected. He asked, “Eva Dodson wasn’t well-behaved, was she?”  
        Dr. Smith blinked, then looked at him for the first time. “Is this about her?”  
        “She’s been murdered.”  
        “Oh…no…oh my god…”  
        “You’ve been treating her for the last month.”  
        “Yes, she…she was a very troubled young woman, but she was making progress.”  
        “Can you tell us where you were last night?”  
        “Let’s see…I worked until seven…then went home. I live alone, but my doorman will remember seeing me, I’m sure.”  
        “Did you go out after that?”  
        “No. I can’t believe this…”  
        Dr. Smith took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes. Will had not noticed any tears gathering. “I’m sure this comes as a shock. We’re just trying to eliminate potential suspects.”  
        “I understand. There was…one teacher she talked about a lot. Mr. Langholtz. She told me he yelled at her.”  
        “About what?”  
        “Being too rough while playing soccer. We were working on her anger management.”  
        “Eva had anger issues?”  
        “Yes. Um…explosive rage, without remorse. Her therapy focused on trying to help her achieve insight into how her behavior would cause problems for her.”  
        “For _her_ , not for others?”  
        “In cases where there’s a lack of moral responsibility, that’s often the only effective way to frame it.”  
        “Would you say that Eva was a sociopath?”  
        “I would say that a lot of her behavior would support antisocial personality disorder.”  
        “There’s no cure for being a sociopath, is there?”  
        “There’s management, and as I said, insight on the part of the patient into how best to navigate the world and relationships without having one’s freedoms restricted. Often times children like Eva run afoul of the law as they grow up. I try to give them tools to avoid that.”  
        “Do you think sometimes it’s inevitable?”  
        “I don’t know. I do my best to help.”  
        “Was Eva receptive to therapy?”  
        “We had good rapport.”  
        Aubrey said quietly, “She trusted you.”  
        “I believe so.”  
        Will waited for Aubrey to continue, but when he did not, Will reached into his briefcase and found a photograph of Wayne Peters. He showed it to the doctor. “Do you recall treating this boy?”  
        Dr. Smith looked closely at the photo, his expression revealing nothing. “I can’t say I do.”  
        “It would have been at Johns Hopkins about four months ago. He had a broken leg.”  
        The doctor shook his head. “No, I’d remember that.”  
         He handed the photo back. Will asked, “What do you think of the idea of giving a child a _time out_ when they’ve misbehaved?”  
        “I think it’s a potentially damaging form of punishment. I caution my patients’ parents against it. Um…not to cut the interview short, but I could use a few minutes to gather my thoughts before my first patient arrives.”  
        Will stood and said, “We’ll contact you if we have more questions.”  
        Dr. Smith shook hands with each of them again. Aubrey descended the stairs quickly to the foyer of the building. Will caught up with him and took him gently by the wrist. Aubrey recoiled as if he had been touched with a hot poker. His eyes held abject terror as he whispered, pleading, “Please don’t.”  
        Will nodded, meeting his eyes, smiling in a way that he hoped looked friendly. “I won’t. Promise.”  
        Aubrey stared at him. Will held his gaze and held it deeply, for as long as the other man needed, which turned out to be much longer than Will could have anticipated. Aubrey’s eyes were drinking from his own in a way that was so intensely pleasurable it bordered on pain. It was the feeling of being trusted. Will felt a barrier in his own mind give way, and he knew that he could trust himself. Aubrey dropped his gaze to the marble floor of the foyer, wringing the handle of his briefcase. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize his name.”  
        “It’s a common name, and it was a long time ago.”  
        “He shouldn’t have said anything in front of you. He was condescending and unprofessional.”  
        “Agreed.”  
        “Would that be enough…would Hannibal kill him for that?”  
        Aubrey was biting his lip again, and Will was morbidly curious to see if he would draw blood. “Probably.”  
        “And you’d do it if he’s guilty.”  
        “We don’t know he’s guilty. He named one of the teachers you have on your list-”  
        “I checked Langholtz out yesterday. He was at a bar with other teachers during the timeframe when the crime took place. They’re regulars there. About thirty people vouched for him. And he has no connection to the victim from Virginia.”  
        “What did Dr. Smith do when he worked with you?”  
        “Prolonged exposure therapy. It was mostly a success.”  
        “Mostly.”  
        “He helped me extinguish many intense phobias that made basic tasks of daily life impossible for me to do independently and extremely difficult for any potential caregiver. There were a lot of sensory triggers, and I came to t-tolerate all but a few. I made a good case study for him. Like he said, I was well-behaved. I wonder, if I hadn’t been…”  
        “We don’t know he’s guilty,” Will repeated, although he had his own suspicions about the doctor.  
         They left the building, ignoring the two agents, and returned to their car. Before they got in, Aubrey said, “Thanks for taking the lead in there.”  
        “Anything I can do to help.”  
        “Please drive.”  
        Aubrey handed him the keys and got into the passenger seat, loosening his tie a little. Will asked, "Where do you want to go?"  
       “The night doorman will have left by now. We'll have to talk to him tomorrow evening. But let's go to his apartment building anyway. I want to check out his car."  
       “We need a search warrant.”  
        “Not to look.”  
        It was a short trip to the doctor’s luxury apartment building, where they left their car with the valet. Once he drove out of sight, they entered the parking deck. It was sprawling, and it took a while to find Dr. Smith’s car, a silver Mercedes. Aubrey wasted no time, using a flashlight to check the seats for any visible evidence. The interior was spotless, as if it had recently been vacuumed, but Will tried not to make any assumptions. Aubrey then knelt down next to the front right tire and examined the tread. Will crouched down beside him and noticed orange-red soil in the treads. “See?” said Aubrey, his eyes a bit wild.  
        “Yeah. He’s been out of the city.”  
        Aubrey scraped a sample into an evidence bag and took several photographs of the tire and the car with his cellphone. As they stood up to leave, someone shouted “Hey!”  
        The valet looked angry. He continued, “What are you guys doing?”  
        Will said, “We got called away and need the car. Came to find you.”  
        “All right, well…I’ll get your car. Meet me out front.”  
        Will gave him a generous tip, in hopes that he would not say anything to Dr. Smith. When they were halfway home, Aubrey’s cellphone rang. “Hi, Jack…great…we’re on our way…a half hour…see you.”  
        He hung up and announced, “We’ve got ID on one of the Buffalo Bill victims. Have you had enough, or…”  
        “I’m with you today.”  
        That elicited a small smile from Aubrey. They did not discuss Dr. Smith -or potentially murdering him- for the remainder of the ride.  
        Jack greeted Will warmly, but his smile was smug. In response, Will fell into his usual routine of averting his eyes, settling into the nearest piece of furniture, and making himself invisible. Jack said to Aubrey, “Your theory seems to be shaping up. The most recent victim was previously convicted for sexual assault. We got a DNA match. Thoughts?”  
        “I don’t know a lot about computers, but is there a way to find out who accessed both his record and that of the second victim -the mechanic?”  
        “Good idea. Follow up on it.”  
        Will and Aubrey proceeded to the IT department and were ushered over to a desk stacked high with FBI laptops, behind which was a young woman with glasses. She was opening the casing of one of the computers when she noticed them peering down at her. She said, “Please, not another one. You guys need to be more careful.”  
        Aubrey smirked. “No, not a broken laptop. We’ve got a case where a murderer is accessing criminal records to choose their victims. If they work for the government or law enforcement they may have used their official login. If not, I was wondering if it’s possible to find out if the victims’ files have been accessed from the same IP address?”  
        She put her tools aside. “Ooh, finally! Something fun, like on TV.”  
        She hurriedly added, “Not that murder is fun. It’s just…since I started here it’s been kinda… _a lot_ more boring than anticipated. Please don’t tell anyone I said that. Yeah, I can help you. Got some names and date ranges for me?”  
        Aubrey handed over the file and she got to work immediately. She had been typing for several minutes when she seemed to notice that they were still standing there, and said, “Oh, you might wanna come back later. It’s gonna be a minute.”  
        They proceeded to the lab, where they found Price and Zeller bantering about socks. Price was saying, “I still contend that a vintage Gold-Toe would leave a distinctly different impression on a malleable surface than, say, a modern- oh, hey, Will, good to see you.”  
        “Hey,” Will replied.  
        “And Agent Winston, what’s up?”  
        Aubrey handed him the evidence bag. Zeller’s eyes were darting back and forth between Will and Aubrey, and Will was sure that he knew about their living arrangement and his continued mental instability. Will did not know where he stood with him, but at least Price was being friendly. Price held the bag up to the light. “Looks like Maryland clay. I can narrow it down.”  
        Aubrey said, “We’re looking at a radius no more than an hour’s drive or so around Baltimore.”  
        Price nodded as he brought the bag over to his workstation. Zeller continued to regard them cooly. “We’ll let you know when we’ve got something,” he said.  
        Will and Aubrey returned to the IT department to find the young woman printing out a report. “Perfect timing, guys, look at this. I’ll put it in terms you can understand. Here are lists of every computer that accessed the files of who you’ve labelled Victim 2 and Victim 5. What you’re interested in is _here_ …”  
        She circled an IP address in the list under the Victim 5 heading. “And _here_ ,” she added, circling another IP address under Victim 2.  
        Will said, “But they’re different.”  
        “Ok, so, the first part of an IP address -the subnet number- is the network address. The second part is the host.”  
        Aubrey frowned. The woman said, “Even simpler. What you’ve got here is access from two different hosts -computers- in the same network. Two different computers in the same building or even the same office.”  
        Another piece of paper came out of the printer and she placed it on the desk in front of them. It was a map. She circled a point on the map and said, “Your best bet is the county courthouse.”  
   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone more computer-literate than me notices a mistake please let me know.


	32. And here, shipmates, is true and faithful repentance...

        It only took Hannibal a few weeks of practice to learn the necessary skills. He was intent on restoring what was broken.  
        There was no dearth of stained glass windows in rural France that could benefit from cleaning and repair. Usually, it was the metal came that deteriorated first, but Hannibal sought out areas of painted glass where the pigment had flaked off, leaving behind ghostly traces of faces, hands, and feet.  
        And if he saw fit to do so, it was easy to create more work. In his travels he paid close attention, as always, to the expressions of the saints, occasionally noticing one so amateurishly rendered that he would put it out of its misery with a well-placed discreetly-timed projectile.  
        His services were almost always accepted, especially once they saw his portfolio of recent work and heard his impeccable French.  
        If the saints came back to church looking a bit different, with curlier hair or bluer eyes, a more doleful expression, nobody had yet noticed or complained.  
        He let sleep take him whenever it wanted, these days. It was the best way, besides painting his image, to feel close to Will.  
  



End file.
